


Trapped!

by Buckeye01



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Aramis Whump, Athos Angst, Drama, Hurt, Hurt Aramis, Hurt Athos, Hurt/Comfort, Nurses, Religious Content, Religious Discussion, Trapped, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-06-09 07:19:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6895246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buckeye01/pseuds/Buckeye01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis is caught in a bear trap and Athos must go get help in order to free his brother. He runs into an unexpected source of help that ultimately changes the Musketeer's view of their life in France forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bear Trap

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my new story, Trapped! This story actually began as an entry to March's Fete challenge, Idle Hands. An interesting idea came to mind, as I was shortly into the story, that I wanted to explore so this was shelved until now. You might see some reference to the Idle Hands theme in a particular spot, but it quickly detours as the overall plot of the story was begging to be told. I hope you enjoy this story and the important theme that is still relevant in today's world.

_The Lord’s anointed, our very life breath, was caught in their traps. We thought that under his shadow we would live among the nations.  
Lamentations 4:20 NIV_

*****

“There has been rather worrisome unrest occurring in the southern regions of France.” Captain Tréville held his arms behind his back as he paced. “The movement has spread recently, reaching as far north as Créteil.”

The captain walked around his desk where a large map of France was laid out on a table for his men to review. He stopped to tap on the commune of Créteil, holding his finger in place as he continued his discussion.

“The king is aware that progressive bands of Huguenots are responsible for the unrest,” Tréville paused at the audible gasp. “Cardinal Richelieu wants to hold a meeting with his cardinals and bishops of surrounding districts to decide upon future action against the Huguenots.”

“Captain, if I may,” Athos interjected, “how do the Musketeers fit into this situation? Should this be a discussion for the Red Guards rather than the Musketeers?”

“If you would allow me to finish, Athos,” the captain raised his eyebrows.

“Of course, Captain.” Athos dipped his head in acquiescence.

“As I was saying,” Captain Tréville continued, “the cardinal wants to conduct a meeting at the Château de Vincennes. How the Musketeers fit in, Athos, is that His Majesty wishes to attend the meeting, since the outcome does affect France and her standing with the church.”

“Are we to provide security for His Majesty?” Athos inquired.

“Yes, we will provide security for the king when he attends as scheduled,” the captain replied. “However, this particular assignment is just a cursory glance—a reconnaissance mission if you will—to study the road between the palace and the Château de Vincennes.”

“Determining exactly what?” Aramis chimed in as he studied the map.

“How safe the road is,” the captain stated matter-of-factly. “His Majesty wants a report on who is traveling this road—particularly if there are any Huguenot travelers. We are to monitor the road for any suspicious activity while keeping our eyes open for Huguenots traveling between Paris and Vincennes.”

“Captain, how are we supposed to determine who the Huguenots are just by sight?” d’Artagnan asked as he glanced in confusion at his three companions.

“They should be easy to spot by their clothing,” Tréville explained. “The Huguenots prefer to dress in a conservative style—almost as peasants—but many wear the Huguenot Cross around their necks, distinguishing themselves as part of the Huguenot Society.”

“So, we’re watchin’ travelers on the road, lookin for Huguenots,” Porthos clarified. “For how long?”

“We will be watching the road in shifts over the course of several days,” Captain Tréville answered. “Each shift will be for an entire day—from sunrise to sunset.”

Audible groans echoed around the table at the dreadful assignment.

“You are serious about this assignment, Captain?” Aramis asked, standing with one hand on his hip and the other pinching the bridge of his nose. “We will spend an _entire_ day of sitting beside a road watching travelers go by. Captain, is this what Musketeers do?”

“Yes, we do exactly as the king demands,” Captain Tréville replied curtly. “He wishes to be aware of the potential dangers _before_ he and the cardinal make plans to travel. The Musketeers are at the king’s bidding.”

“And if there is no Huguenot activity on this road?” Athos questioned.

“It should tell us that the Huguenots have not yet reached Paris and its outlying regions.” Captain Tréville tapped his finger on the map, tracing from the Louvre Palace to the Château de Vincennes. “Nevertheless, the Musketeers will provide security along the entire route to Vincennes when the king travels.” 

“If we are to provide security for His Majesty, at least the distance is short.” Athos pointed to the two points on the map. “Vincennes is less than three leagues from Paris.”

“Yes and remember, gentlemen, this assignment is for preliminary reconnaissance,” he sighed as he drummed his fingers on the map. “Understand that you each have an important job to do, though it may be rather tedious.”

“Boring, I would say… in less polite wording,” Aramis muttered with a frown.

“If you can get past the monotony of watching travelers, it should be an easy assignment.” Captain Tréville glared at the medic. “However, you are to stay alert at _all_ times; never leave your post for any reason. You are to be observant of who is traveling on the road, especially be aware of Huguenot presence.”

“When do we go, sir?” Athos asked.

“You leave tomorrow, at dawn.”

“Well, nothing like short notice.” Aramis rubbed a hand through his hair.

“I expect you to be ready to ride out at sunup.” Captain Tréville returned to sit behind his desk. “You men are dismissed.”

**Next Morning:**

“Aw, don’t tell me it’s starting to rain!” d’Artagnan groaned as he pulled his doublet collar up higher. “This is going to be a dreadfully long day.”

“I can think of a hundred other things I’d rather do today than watch a road,” Aramis complained, shoving his hat further down on his head. “Especially in the rain.”

“You do realize that the more you complain the longer the day will seem.” Athos grinned at his friend. “This is an easy assignment; think of it as a relaxing day in the woods.”

“Well, the pup and I should keep busy for several hours,” Porthos admitted proudly. “I finally have the time to give him a proper education.”

“A proper education in what?” Aramis asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Card games, mon cher,” Porthos smiled as he tapped his jacket pocket. “Packed ‘em so we wouldn’t get bored sittin’ in the trees all day.”

“Just make sure you keep your eyes on the road while you’re busy playing games,” Athos ordered. “We’re on this assignment because the king’s safety depends on it.”

“I learned somethin’ growin’ up in the Court; I learned to be aware of my surrounding’s.” Porthos’ eyes scanned the forest as they rode toward their assigned destination. “I always watch who’s around me and what they’re doing so I won’t be caught off guard. In the Court, you learn to grow eyes in the back of your head.” 

“That is why you can’t ever sneak up on the man,” Aramis whispered to d’Artagnan.

“Better lose the hat then,” d’Artagnan announced with amusement. “The eyes in the back of your head can’t see a thing with that big, floppy hat in the way.” 

“Alright, we’re at the first lookout.” Athos reined his horse to a stop. “The rest of you proceed on to your respective checkpoints,” he ordered the remaining Musketeers. “Space yourselves out about a league apart. You are to remain at your checkpoint until _nearly_ dusk—leave yourself enough time to return to this checkpoint before dark. We will wait here until everybody has reported in before riding back to the garrison together.” 

“I will see you back here tonight.” Aramis smiled as he raised his hat in farewell to the departing four men. “If we haven’t died from boredom by then,” he sighed.

“Au revoir,” d’Artagnan made a clicking sound with his tongue as he gently kicked his horse forward. The Gascon rode beside Porthos, heading toward their assigned checkpoint on the road to Vincennes; following behind them were the Musketeers, Benoit and Marceau.

Athos and Aramis stood watching the four men ride away until they rounded a bend and disappeared from sight. “This is going to be a long day,” they echoed together. The two men led their horses into the trees then settled at a place where they could observe oncoming travelers without being noticed. 

“This is a good spot to watch the road.” Athos sat on the ground then leaned against the large tree. “Find a tree, Aramis; might as well make yourself comfortable.” 

“Lord above, help me to make it through the monotony of this day,” Aramis muttered as he crossed himself. The medic stared down the long empty stretch of road and sighed heavily. _God, help me to stay awake._.

**Later:**

“I’m bored,” Aramis complained as he whittled on a small branch with his main gauche. The medic carved away the bark, stroke after stroke until smooth. He watched as the shaves of wood curled then dropped to the forest floor into a growing pile at his feet.

“You should have brought a book.” Athos smiled as he watched his friend over the pages of his book. _Hmm, Aramis; boredom; sharp weapon… probably not a wise combination._

“Why didn’t you remind me to bring a book?” Aramis threw aside the thin stick to start on a new branch. “Porthos brought a deck of cards and _you_ brought a book. Why didn’t you tell me I could bring something?” 

“I didn’t tell Porthos to bring anything.” Athos looked up from his book with a sly smirk. “He was smart and planned ahead.”

“I should have gone with Porthos,” Aramis muttered under his breath. “At least I wouldn’t be talking to myself while you quietly read your book.” The medic snapped apart his branch as Athos grinned to himself behind the book. “What is that book you’re reading anyway?”

“It is called, _La vie très horrifique du grand Gargantua, père de Pantagruel_ by François Rabelais.” Athos cleared his throat as he lowered the book. “It is a rather crude, if not obscene, tale of two giants—a father and son—fighting and defeating an invading army of giants; they then drown the survivors in urine.”

“Athos, you’re not seriously reading…” the medic’s jaw hung agape. “An army of giants… who drown their enemy in urine?” Aramis laughed. “You would read such a story? Athos, you surprise me. In fact, I’m more than a little surprised at you.”

“Really, Aramis,” Athos replied dryly. “François Rabelais is an excellent author of French literature; his book is quite popular, despite the risqué humor. Regardless, I needed something amusing to keep me awake today.”

 

“I’m bored,” Aramis sighed.

“Aramis!” Athos growled as he slammed the book shut. “If you complain about being bored _one_ more time,” he threatened. “You must have said that you were bored fifty times already.”

“You’re exaggerating…”

“Am I?” Athos took a deep breath to compose himself. “If you are so bored, rather than whittling aimlessly on twigs, might I suggest you go find a larger branch and carve a cross… or a bird… or _something.”_

“Hmm, that’s not a bad idea.” Aramis grinned, tossing the small twig aside. The medic stretched his arms out wide, yawning as he stood nearly on his tip toes. Finally limber, he set out in search of the perfect piece of wood. “There must be a good-sized branch around here in among all these trees.” 

**Porthos and d’Artagnan Second Checkpoint:**

“I’m running out of rocks,” d’Artagnan complained, frowning at the cards in his hands. “I should have known better than to bet against you. Look at this,” he spread his cards out on the dirt and shook his head in disgust.

“You are looed, my young brother.” Porthos laughed as he pulled the pile of rocks—acting as replacement for gambling chips—toward him. “Are you up for another round?”

“Naw, I’m not very good at lenturlu, it appears. Good thing we’re not playing for real money,” d’Artagnan sighed. “I would owe you my paycheck for the next year.”

“Rubbish, you’re better than you think,” Porthos winked. “But your facial expressions give yourself away, pup. This is a trick-taking game; the strategy is foolin’ your opponents. You must learn to keep your face neutral, no matter what you have in your hand.”

“Easier said than done,” d’Artagnan rubbed a hand over his face. “You’ve been playing these games years longer than me.”

“It takes practice, but you’ll get there.” Porthos nodded as he shuffled the cards. “Just try to remember, keep your face neutral—don’t show any emotion. Give nothin’ away… and don’t let your eyes give yourself away. Keep your face blank. Show ‘em nothing.”

“I wonder how Athos and Aramis are doing?” d’Artagnan stared down the road. “There hasn’t been any suspicious activity all day. If you didn’t bring these cards,” he paused, “I would be bored stiff.”

“If I know ‘Mis, he’s probably pesterin’ Athos to no end,” Porthos chuckled at the thought. “I wish I had a livre for every time he tells Athos he’s bored.”

“You should have told Athos to keep track.”

“Oi, if I know Athos, he probably tuned out ‘Mis a long time ago; he probably has his nose in that book, passin’ time.”

“I didn’t see him bring a book,” the young Gascon remarked with surprise.

“And you’re surprised?” Porthos ghosted a grin. “Athos is clever at hiding things he doesn’t want discovered.”

“But, how did you know…?”

“Another trick that’ll help ya,” Porthos said as he pushed the rocks to the side. “Learn to watch people— their mannerisms and expressions—you watch their eyes. Learn to read people by watchin’ them and you’ll figure it out quick.”

“You know Athos brought a book just by watching him?”

“Watching him,” Porthos laughed as he picked up the deck of cards, “and knowing him for years. I have another lesson of trick-playin’ for you,” he shuffled the deck. “I’m going to teach you the game of Réversi. Remember what I said ‘bout your facial expressions—it’s very important in this game.”

“Go easy on me… please.”

“Going easy on ya is not how you learn, pup.” Porthos winked as he dealt out the cards.

“Oi…”

*****

“Hmm, I’m sure there’s a decent sized branch around here somewhere.” Aramis talked to himself as wandered away, scanning the forest floor.

“Don’t wander too far away,” Athos called over his shoulder as the medic disappeared behind a row of trees. “I don’t want to have to come looking for you!”

“Yes, mother,” came the sarcastic reply in the distance.

“I completely understand why the captain is losing his hair.” Athos huffed to himself with amusement. “I hope Porthos and d’Artagnan are faring well…” 

A sudden scream of pain broke Athos from his reverie, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to prickle. He threw his book down then jumped to his feet and followed the harrowing screams into the trees. His hand readied on the hilt of his sword, prepared to terminate the unknown cause of harm to his friend.

As Athos came around the large tree he stopped short, unexpectedly frozen at the sight of Aramis screaming and writhing on the forest floor. His hands were bloodied as he clutched at his right foot, trying desperately to free it.

“Mon Dieu,” Athos’ blood ran cold as he dropped to his knees beside the medic. “Let me see,” he said. The lieutenant tried to pull the medic’s hands away but they wouldn’t budge. 

Athos brushed away the pile of dried leaves to reveal a chain attached to a trigger plate, prompting the iron jaws of a bear trap to seize the booted ankle of Aramis. The teeth of the wicked device were buried deep in the medic’s flesh, right through the leather boot. The cruel device had chomped down hard, as if it had attempted to take the Musketeer’s foot.

“Damn,” Aramis cursed through clenched teeth. He collapsed back on his side as pain slammed into his very core, shooting up his leg as though his foot was being ripped from his body. “God, get it… off, Athos,” he gasped. White spots danced in his vision as flames of agony burned at his ankle and coursed through his body, enveloping him in sheer torment. His chest heaved with rapid breaths fueled by the anguish and the screams for help.

“Hold still!” Athos gripped the iron bands biting into Aramis’ leg and pulled until his hands shook; his arm muscles strained against the unyielding instrument of torture. “I can’t loosen it, dammit!” He grasped at the jaws once again, using every ounce of strength he had until the iron bands cut into his fingers. His own blood mixed with the blood of his brother, still the device would not yield. 

“God, please…”

“Dammit to hell!” Athos swiped angrily at the sweat beading on his forehead, leaving a streak of blood across his face. “I can’t… ‘Mis… I can’t get it off… it’s too tight. I’m not strong enough to do this alone. Your foot is caught in a bear trap,” he shook his head as he studied the device. “It looks new—fine craftsmanship—but these jaws won’t budge.”

“Merde!” Aramis balled his fist on a handful of dirt and squeezed. He turned onto his belly then gulped a lungful of air, holding it as he pulled himself forward. The air burst from his lungs as the trap viciously yanked on his leg, stopping his attempt to escape.

“Dammit, Aramis, you must stop moving!” Athos ordered as he tried once again to pry the jaws apart but to no avail. “You’re trapped—you can’t simply crawl out of this. Listen to me, Aramis, I can’t pull these jaws apart on my own,” he hung his head sadly. “I must go for help.”

“No… no, don’t… don’t go… don’t leave me here.” Aramis cried as he flailed side to side, his body being tormented by the iron teeth. Tremors of pain burst through his body with every beat of his heart as sweat beaded on his brow. He shivered, finally realizing he couldn’t escape the teeth holding him hostage.

“Aramis, you have to lie still; you will only hurt yourself worse if you keep moving.” Athos cradled Aramis’ head in his lap as he tenderly brushed away the sweat-soaked hair from his face. “Just lie still,” he whispered softly. His gentle ministrations continued, running his thumbs across the flushed cheeks as he whispered soothing words to calm the medic.

Aramis relaxed in his brother’s arms, concentrating on the soothing words whispered in his ear. The tension and fear slowly dissipated as Athos held onto him, gently massaging his temples or running his hand softly through his hair.

“Aramis, I need for you to lie still,” Athos whispered in his ear. “Do not try to move, just lie still.” The lieutenant looked down the road for travelers, but there was no one. “I know you’re hurting but you must not move or you’ll hurt yourself worse. Listen to me now, I need to go get help.”

“No, please… don’t leave me!”

“I’m going to get Porthos and d’Artagnan; they’re close by and can help. I promise you, I will return.” Athos paused to swallow the lump rising in his throat. “You have to promise me something too.”

“What?” Aramis rasped through a grimace of pain. “P-pr-promise you what?”

“Promise me that you’ll lie still and wait for me to come back.” Athos grasped Aramis’ hand and squeezed. “Don’t try to loosen the trap—you cannot, I’ve tried—so just lie still and wait for me to return. You stay awake and fight this; do not give in to the trap.”

Aramis closed his eyes and nodded.

“You hang on until I get back… and that’s an order.” Athos smiled at the faint nod his command elicited. “I’ll leave your dagger and your pistol within reach in case you need them.” The lieutenant put the weapons near the medic’s hands on the ground. “You stay awake, Aramis, and keep your eyes open for anyone—or anything—that comes near. Do you hear me?”

Aramis nodded. “Pl-please hurry…”

“You know I will.” Athos gave one last squeeze to his friend’s shoulder. “Remember your promise to me, brother.”

“I pr-promise.”

Athos squeezed Aramis’ shoulder then ran to his horse. He burst from the trees at a gallop, nearly running headlong into a wagon carrying a trio of nuns traveling east. “Whoa!” yelled Athos, stopping Roger in his tracks just before impact.

“I have always welcomed chance encounters,” the eldest nun said as she wiped her brow in relief. “But almost running into a King’s Musketeer is quite incredible.”

“Forgive me, Sisters, but I’m in a hurry,” he gathered his reins. “I have an emergency!”

“Perhaps there is something we can do to help,” Sister Maria offered. “We are nurses; there must be a divine reason why we encountered each other in such a manner.” 

“Then you can help me!” Athos marveled at the chance encounter. “My friend has his foot caught in a bear trap and he is badly injured. I cannot get the trap open myself, but my companions are just down the road…” 

“Of course, we’ll tend to your friend,” agreed a younger nun, Sister Angelica. “Just tell us where he is located so you can be on your way.”

“He’s straight back through those trees, behind the large pine.” Athos turned in the saddle, pointing into the forest. “Please make sure that he doesn’t move and keep him conscious, if possible.”

“We will do all that we can for him,” Sister Maria assured. “What is his name, please?”

“Aramis,” Athos replied. The Musketeer looked anxiously to the trees and then back again at the nuns, reluctant to leave.

“Monsieur, I assure you that we will watch over your friend and tend to him the best that we can,” Sister Angelica smiled. “Now, go retrieve your companions. Go quickly!”

The nuns watched as Athos kicked his horse into full gallop, speeding down the road until out of sight. “Gabrielle, you stay with the wagon while Sister Angelica and I go see to Aramis.” The elder nun instructed as she climbed from the wagon.

Sisters Angelica and Maria went in search of Aramis, following in the direction Athos described. As the women rounded the tree, they stopped short as they found Aramis pointing his pistol at them.

“Who are… I’m s-sorry… sis-sisters.” Aramis dropped his hand to the ground with the pistol. He crunched his eyes closed in a grimace of pain. “Where’s … Athos?”

“He went for help; he went to get your friends,” the nun replied. “I am Sister Angelica and this is Sister Maria. We are going to take care of you until your friends come back.”

“P-please, get… get it off,” Aramis gasped. He tried to pull at his foot, eliciting a scream of pain from the movement. “Get it off!” the medic yelled. He turned slightly, dropping his head to the ground as he was overcome with a wave of dizziness. He breathed through the dizziness, his chest heaving with heavy and ragged breaths, as he willed himself to stay awake.

“Please, Monsieur, you must lie still or you will aggravate the wound even more,” Sister Maria ordered. “I am a nurse by trade. Unfortunately, there is little I can do—as long as that trap is on your foot—other than keep you comfortable. Here, take a drink.” Maria held a water skin to Aramis’ lips, offering relief to his parched mouth.

The nuns tenderly cared for Aramis, keeping him as comfortable as possible, as they awaited Athos’ return. The sisters wiped sweat from the medic’s brow and dried involuntary tears of pain as they leaked from his eyes. Angelica held him still as he moaned in pain, whispering soothing words of comfort in his ear.

“I c-can’t hold on,” Aramis hissed. “I can’t… I can’t… keep my p-promise. T-tell Athos… I’m s-sorry. I can’t…”

“Aramis?” Sister Angelica asked, suddenly panicked. “Aramis!”

*****

TBC 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As an animal activist, I consider leg-hold traps to be among the cruelest and most barbaric devices for hunting/killing an animal. That said, in the late sixteenth century bear trapping began with the advent of the leg-hold trap. Bear traps are quite large with jaws spreading from ten to sixteen inches wide. Some traps had teeth with rounded edges, but most had very sharp edges. The teeth were about one inch long, and helped hold the bear in the trap. Once the jaws snap shut, they are nearly impossible to open without great strength.
> 
>  **Créteil:** During the French Wars of Religion (1567) the Huguenots plundered the church in Créteil and burned the local charters, causing a lasting distrust and hatred of Protestants in the area. 
> 
> **_La vie très horrifique du grand Gargantua, père de Pantagruel_** is translated as _The very horrific life of the great Gargantua, father of Pantagruel._ This long-titled book was written by François Rabelais in 1534. The modern-day title of the book is easier to remember, _Gargantua and Pantagruel._ It tells the story of two giants—a father, Gargantua, and his son, Pantagruel—and their adventures, written in an amusing, extravagant, and satirical manner that was racy and raw for its time. 
> 
> **The Huguenot Cross** also known as **The Cross of Languedoc:** It is believed to have been a sign of recognition among the French Protestants. It was patterned after the Order of the Holy Spirit worn by Henry IV of Navarre, who issued the Edict of Nantes in 1598 to protect Protestant freedoms. 
> 
> The Cross is described as such:
> 
> • The insignia consists of an open four-petal Lily of France -- reminiscent of the Mother Country of France -- in which each petal radiates outward in the shape of a "V" to form a Maltese Cross. The four petals signify the Four Gospels. Each petal has two rounded points at the corners. These rounded points are regarded to signify the Eight Beatitudes.
> 
> • The four petals are joined together by four fleur-de-lis, also reminiscent of the Mother Country of France. Each fleur-de-lis has three petals. The twelve petals of the four fleur-de-lis signify the Twelve Apostles.
> 
> • An open space, between each fleur-de-lis and joining petals, form the shape of a heart. This shape -- a symbol of loyalty -- suggests the seal of the great French Reformer, John Calvin.
> 
> • A descending dove pendant, representing the Saint Esprit or "Sainted Spirit" -- the guide and counselor of the Church -- is suspended from a ring of gold attached to the lower central petal.


	2. Jaws of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To save his brother, the Musketeer lieutenant needed help to open the deadly jaws, he wasn’t strong enough to do it alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the tremendous response to the first chapter. I will update with chapter 3 on Monday.
> 
> Have a Blessed Weekend!

_Oh, my anguish, my anguish! I writhe in pain. Oh, the agony of my heart! My heart pounds within me, I cannot keep silent. For I have heard the sound of the trumpet: I have heard the battle cry.  
Jeremiah 4:19 NIV_

*****

“Wait a minute, no one’s ever beat me playin’ Reversin.” Porthos growled. “You’ve played this before… or you’re cheatin’!” the large Musketeer winked.

“Really, Porthos?” d’Artagnan rolled his eyes. “I’m a fast learner; besides, I had a good teacher.”

The sound of a horse fast approaching had both men anxiously jumping to their feet. Standing behind a tree with pistols ready, they each breathed a sigh of relief as they watched Athos ride up.

“Bloody hell, you almost got yourself shot!” Porthos roared. “Athos… what’s wrong?” 

“It’s Aramis!” Athos reported with alarm. Roger snorted, ready to get moving again. “His foot is caught in a bear trap and I can’t get the jaws apart—they won’t budge. I need your help!”

“But what about…?”

“Rubbish!” Porthos ran to his horse. “Let’s go!”

Athos turned Roger and charged down the road, knowing his brothers would be right behind him. Together the three rode back to where Aramis lay in agony, trapped in the unforgiving grip of the iron jaws. The Musketeer lieutenant worried that leaving Aramis alone with strangers wasn’t the wisest of decisions, yet it seems the nuns had come along at the perfect time to help. 

What would Athos have done if the nuns hadn’t come along—leave Aramis alone? This was his brother—this was Aramis—who was badly hurt. There simply was no other choice he could have made. To save his brother, the Musketeer lieutenant needed help to open the deadly jaws, he wasn’t strong enough to do it alone.

Arriving at the first checkpoint, Athos sprang from his horse and rushed to Aramis’ side with his two brothers on his heels. They found the nuns dabbing at the medic’s face as they quoted Psalm 23 aloud. Aramis’ pale face glistened with sweat; thin rivulets of perspiration rolled into his sweat-soaked hair. He lay unmoving. 

“Mon Dieu!” Athos gasped at the frightful sight of his unconscious brother.

“Athos, we tried to keep him awake but he just couldn’t hold on,” Sister Maria said as she blinked back the tears.

“Bloody hell,” Porthos growled, forgetting his present company. “Pardon me, Sisters,” he apologized. The large Musketeer dropped to his knees beside Aramis then gently took the medic from Angelica’s arms. “I’m here, brother,” he said, cradling his friend’s head in his lap.

“How long has he been unconscious?” Athos asked as he checked the medic’s pulse to reassure himself that his friend still lived.

“It hasn’t been that long, maybe ten minutes,” Sister Angelica reported. “He tried so hard to stay awake.”

“Aramis, wake up for me, mon cher.” Porthos wiped the sweat from his friend’s brow with a handkerchief. “Come on, ‘Mis, this is not a good time for a nap,” he gently shook his shoulders. “Open your eyes for me.” 

“Porth’s?” Aramis slurred in a soft whisper. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me, brother.” Porthos cupped Aramis’ face with his hand, his thumb rubbed softly along the jaw line. “I know this was a borin’ assignment, but you didn’t have to get yourself trapped to make it excitin’.” 

“Mmm, what’s a little… excitement to sp-spice up the mono-monotony. Aaugh…!” Aramis cried out as a sudden flash of pain jolted through his foot like a zap of lightning. “S-stop!” 

“I’m sorry, Aramis… I’m sorry.” d’Artagnan ran a shaking hand down his face after testing the strength of the trap’s springs. “We’re not going get these jaws apart by pulling on them.”

“How do we get the trap open then?” Athos asked, incredulous at the grim statement.

“We need something we can use as leverage to pry these jaws apart,” d’Artagnan suggested. “We won’t get them apart otherwise—the trap is too tight… too strong.” 

“Leverage?” Porthos asked, confused. “Just how do we do that?”

The Gascon studied the trap, carefully observing every angle on each side. He rubbed his chin absently as he formulated a plan on how to free the medic’s foot. “If we can slip a dagger in between each jaw and Aramis’ boot…”

“… we can get it open!” Porthos finished the Gascon’s thoughts. “At least enough…”

“… at least enough,” d’Artagnan interrupted, “to insert a couple of thick sticks on each side. If we position the sticks on the inside of the teeth then push down and out, it should open the jaws.”

“Very good, that’s a brilliant idea.” Athos smiled as he clapped the Gascon on the shoulder.

“It is a brilliant idea,” Porthos winked. “How’d you think of that?”

“I grew up on a farm, remember?” d’Artagnan grimly shook his head at the memories swirling in his mind’s eye. “I helped my father to free some of the unfortunate critters caught in these dreadful devices in the woods near our farm. When you see the suffering an animal endures because of these things…” he paused and shuddered. “We never used the traps on our farm; my father couldn’t stand them. He always said there were better ways to rid the farm of unwelcome pests. I believe anyone with a heart would never use such a cruel device.” 

“Well said, young man.” Sister Maria smiled at d’Artagnan. “Do we not see enough suffering in this world without causing it deliberately? If only more people cared about _not_ causing unnecessary pain and suffering to others, even to the innocent creatures of God.”

“I agree,” d’Artagnan smiled before turning his attention back to his brothers. “Alright, let’s get this device off of Aramis’ foot. First, we need to find some thick branches that won’t snap once we start prying these jaws apart.”

“God forbid if that happens!” Sister Angelica interjected.

“Exactly why we cannot let it happen,” Athos retorted. “Aramis has suffered enough.”

“He’s suffered more than enough, Monsieur,” Sister Maria dabbed the damp cloth over the medic’s face.

Athos scrubbed a hand down his face as he looked around the vicinity, scanning for fallen branches. “Porthos, I want you to stay with Aramis; d’Artagnan, you come with me to look for branches. Be careful where you step—there could be more of those traps hidden underneath the leaves.”

The two men fanned out looking for branches, picking up sticks of various sizes then testing their sturdiness by bending them with both hands. Each time a branch snapped, it was tossed aside. Finding sufficient branches that wouldn’t break under heavy stress turned out to be more difficult than Athos had imagined in a forest so dense with trees. 

“Ah, here’s a good, thick branch,” d’Artagnan held it up for Athos to see.

“Hmm, let’s see if it’s strong enough,” Athos said as he took the branch then began bending it, testing it. He raised his eyebrows in hope… until it suddenly _snapped_ in two. He angrily tossed the broken pieces away. “Dammit!” he cursed. “Let’s keep looking.” 

“Here’s one!” d’Artagnan picked up a thick branch then held it out in front of him, trying hard to bend it. The Gascon clenched his jaws as he pushed on both ends of the stick; his muscles strained against the durability of the branch, yet it would not break. “This is perfect, Athos. If we look for branches of this size, we should make this work.”

The men carefully searched and tested branches until they had several sturdy enough to withstand the jaws of the trap. They brought the sticks back then dropped them into a pile next to where Aramis lay. The medic’s eyes were closed, though he obviously remained conscious as his face was grimaced in pain and his fists tightly clenched.

“This is going to take all three of us working together if we are to be successful. Porthos, I want you to use my main gauche to pry open the jaws,” Athos said. The lieutenant pulled out his dagger then handed it to his friend, determination emanating from his eyes. “This most certainly will cause damage to the blade, so there is no need to have _yours_ damaged. I will purchase a new dagger, when necessary.”

“But Ath…”

“Just take it,” Athos ordered curtly.

“Alright, that leaves the two of us to work the jaws,” d’Artagnan said with a nod. He picked up two thick sticks and handed one to Athos. “Remember, when we get our sticks in between the jaws we have to push down together as this will start pulling the jaws apart. I cannot emphasize enough the importance, that once we start pushing the jaws apart, we cannot stop!”

“But what happens if the stick breaks?” 

“Exactly why we brought extra sticks as a precautionary measure,” Athos answered Porthos.

“As we push down, the jaws will open wider and wider until they finally spring open—at least, that is the hope. If a stick starts to break, we need to be quick in getting another one in its place or else…” d’Artagnan paused.

“God forbid…” Athos groaned.

“Just… do what… you… have to.” Aramis swallowed hard. He shifted nervously, bracing himself for the pain that was about to come down on him. “Just… get it off.”

“Aramis, as we begin to pull apart the jaws it will hurt, but you _must_ lie still… do not move.” Athos gently squeezed the medic’s shoulder as he gave a tiny nod. “Sisters, hold his shoulders down; do not let him move.”

The two nuns grabbed hold of the medic’s shoulders and pressed down hard, nodding that they were ready. 

“Are we ready, gentlemen?” Athos asked, waiting for nods from his brothers. 

“God above, we ask for your hand to be upon each of these men as they attempt to free Aramis’ foot from this trap,” Sister Angelica prayed. “Please, help us and give us strength we pray. Amen.”

Porthos closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose, slowly exhaling the breath through his mouth. He carefully wedged the dagger down between the iron band and Aramis’ boot, with the flat of the blade flush against the boot. “Brace yourself, ‘Mis, this is going to hurt,” he warned apologetically. 

“Ju-just… do it.”

“Alright, here we go.” Porthos began to slowly twist the dagger until the edges of the blade were perpendicular to the jaws and Aramis’ boot, creating a small pocket of space. 

“Ahhhh!” Aramis screamed as the teeth pulled out of his ankle, separating from the boot. He bucked and tried writhing away from the hands holding him down, but the nurses held the medic firmly in place. “God… p-please… s-stop!”

“Hold still, dammit!” Athos snapped as he tried fitting his stick in between the trap and the leather boot. Finally securing the stick, he nodded to Porthos to go ahead and pull the dagger out so he could repeat the process on d’Artagnan’s side.

“One more to go…” Porthos warned. The large Musketeer duplicated the daunting task of separating the jaw from Aramis’ boot on the inside of his ankle, eliciting another painful scream from the medic. 

“It’s in!” d’Artagnan said as he quickly slid his branch in between the teeth and the boot. He took a deep breath then nodded to Athos he was ready to begin separating the jaws.

“Are you ready, ‘Mis?” Porthos asked, softly squeezing the shoulder of his friend.

“Yes,” Aramis nodded weakly. He understood that what they were about to do would undoubtedly cause him unbearable pain—but it was necessary. “Go… ahead and j-just get it… d-done.”

Athos and d’Artagnan glanced apologetically at each other then let out a long breath. “Begin,” Athos said. Together, the two men pushed down hard on their sticks, moving the iron jaws ever slightly outward.

“Arrggghhhh…” Aramis screamed out, his body jerking at the wave of agony that suddenly shot up from his ankle. Porthos and the two nuns pressed harder against the medic to keep him from thrashing around… until the writhing body under their hands suddenly went limp. 

“No!” Athos hissed through his clenched teeth.

“It’s alright—thank the good Lord—he’s just passed out.” Sister Angelica uttered after checking his pulse. “It’s better this way; at least he won’t suffer from the pain… the poor man.”

“It’s… not… budging!” d’Artagnan spat out angrily. His hands trembled as he pushed against the stick, watching with worry as the iron began digging into the wood.

“Porthos… quickly!” Athos growled. “Find another… thick stick.” The lieutenant pushed down on his stick with all his strength. His arms strained against the stubborn iron band that refused to give in so easily. Beads of sweat popped out across his forehead then ran down his skin; his face now flushed bright red from exerting such pressure.

“God above, help them pry these jaws open and free this dear man!” Sister Maria prayed as she swabbed Athos’ brow.

“It’s… going to… break!” d’Artagnan cried out, his eyes growing wide as the stick began to crack.

Porthos found a thick branch and quickly placed it beside d’Artagnan’s stick just as the wood _snapped_ in the Gascon’s hand. “Merde… that was… was too close!” d’Artagnan panted.

“Thank God!” Porthos closed his eyes, letting out a relieved breath. The large Musketeer held the stick against the iron jaw until d’Artagnan could grasp it himself and begin pushing down once again.

At last, the jaws began to slowly give. With applied strength of the two men, the jagged teeth moved out and away from Aramis’ foot. The Musketeers continued their downward pressure until the jaws finally sprang open with a loud _SNAP!_ just as Athos’ stick broke apart in his hand.

“Yes!” the group yelled out in chorus. 

Athos and d’Artagnan slumped sideways to the ground; their muscles now weak and worn out from such extreme effort. Streams of sweat dripped down their faces and into their eyes as they took a moment to catch their breath. Their chest heaved with heavy pants as both men lay motionless on the ground, trying to regain their strength.

“Thank you, God above!” Sisters Angelica and Maria prayed, crossing themselves with shaking hands.

Porthos carefully pulled Aramis’ foot up and away from the trap then laid the medic’s leg gently down on the ground. “Oi,” he glanced at his hands, now slick with sticky blood. 

d’Artagnan sat up then took a heavy branch and slammed it onto the trigger plate of the trap. The jaws of the trap _SNAPPED!_ shut around the piece of wood, sending small chunks splintering into the leaves. “Just making sure this cursed thing doesn’t hurt anyone—or anything—else out here.”

Athos slowly sat up then went to remove Aramis’ boot but was stopped short.

“No, do not remove his boot!” Sister Maria warned. “You may injure his foot further; we must wrap it tightly _without_ removing the boot until he can be seen by a physician. Our first priority is to stop the bleeding.”

Athos removed his scarf as Sister Maria removed her apron and cornette. Angelica folded the scarf and placed it over the jagged edges of the leather boot then wrapped the white headpiece around the medic’s leg. The nurse then took the apron and wrapped it tightly over the makeshift bandage, knotting it directly over the outside of Aramis’ ankle.

“You can put Aramis in our wagon,” Sister Angelica offered. “In the back of the wagon he can lie flat while keeping his foot elevated. We will gladly ride back to your garrison with you.”

“Thank you, Sister,” Athos sighed with relief. “That would be quite helpful and most appreciated.”

Porthos lifted Aramis in his arms and carried him to the wagon. “I’ll sit with him,” he said as he gently laid the medic in the wagon. He climbed into the wagon then pulled the unconscious medic backward, holding him against his chest as he scoot comfortably into the corner. Nurse Maria propped the medic’s foot up on a crate then covered him with a blanket.

“d’Artagnan, I want you to ride ahead to the garrison.” Athos ordered the Gascon as he mounted his horse. “Tell the captain what has happened and find out if Doctor Lemay is available. If Lemay is not there, find someone else to take his place. Aramis will need a physician ready at the moment we arrive.”

“Athos, what about Benoit and Marceau down the road?” d’Artagnan motioned with his head to the east. “They don’t know what’s happened and will be expecting to meet us here tonight.”

“Dammit!” Athos growled. “I forgot all about them.” 

“I can ride up the road to inform your men of what has happened here,” Sister Gabrielle chimed in. “I haven’t done anything but sit here all this time. Please, allow me to help in this way.”

“Can you ride?” Athos asked skeptically. “I do not wish you to risk yourself in this manner, especially by yourself.”

“Monsieur, I will only be alone until I reach your two men, am I not correct?” Sister Gabrielle countered. “And _yes_ I can ride—I grew up on a farm with three brothers. If your men are trustworthy, I will ride back with them to your garrison where I will join up with my sisters.”

“She sounds more than sure of herself, Athos, and quite capable of handling this task. I’ll be on my way,” d’Artagnan smiled at the young nun. The Gascon turned his horse and quickly raced west toward Paris at a full gallop.

“Take Aramis’ horse,” Athos pointed to the black mare still tied to the tree where Aramis left her hours earlier. “Tell the men to report back to the garrison immediately.”

“Oui, Monsieur,” Sister Gabrielle affirmed. The nurse pulled up her skirt then easily settled into the saddle. With one last nod, she turned Fidget east and raced away down the road.

Sister Angelica fetched Porthos’ horse as Maria turned the wagon around to face west. Once Flip was secured, the wagon followed behind Athos’ lead at a quick, but careful pace, keeping in mind the patient in the back.

 

**Musketeer Garrison:**

Captain Tréville, d’Artagnan, and Doctor Lemay anxiously awaited the arrival of the wagon bearing the injured Aramis. At last, the wagon pulled through the arched gateway to the courtyard of the Musketeer garrison, sending the waiting men scurrying into action.

Porthos still cradled the unconscious Aramis in his arms, his face masked heavily with worry. Blood seeped through the makeshift bandage on both sides of the medic’s ankle, staining the white material dark crimson. 

“Let’s get him inside… easy now,” d’Artagnan said as he pulled Aramis forward. The Gascon helped Porthos carefully slide the patient to the back of the wagon where Athos waited. The lieutenant gathered Aramis into his arms and carried him to the infirmary where Dr. Lemay and the captain were waiting.

“Oh no, Aramis…” Captain Tréville groaned at the sight of his pale and bloody medic. 

Athos rushed past his captain to gently place his unconscious friend on an empty cot as the doctor rolled open his medical tool kit on the bedside table. “Please help him, Doctor.”

“Hmm, I dare not try pulling this boot off, lest I injure his ankle further,” the doctor surmised after examining the patient. “I’ll have to cut it off.” 

“Do what you must, Doctor Lemay,” Captain Tréville nodded.

Doctor Lemay reached for a sharp blade to cut open the boot from top to bottom. “I’ll beg his forgiveness later. On second thought, this boot was damaged beyond repair anyway; I have nothing to ask forgiveness for. He’ll just have to buy a new pair…” 

Gently, the doctor and Athos peeled away the flaps of leather, revealing bloodied gouges and torn flesh ripped apart by the metal teeth. Audible gasps echoed around the patient as the damaged ankle was exposed for the first time.

The pale skin was discolored with purple and blue bruises mixed with the deep crimson of dried blood; as well as bright red blood still oozing from the wound. The ankle was swollen to twice its normal size, further pushing out the jagged edges of the torn flesh. Deep puncture wounds exposed the ankle bone, the whiteness of which contrasted starkly against the grisly injury.

“Dear God… such a ghastly wound.” Lemay shook his head in disgust. “However, considering the damage done to the thick leather hide of that boot, it probably saved his foot. If not for that sturdy boot, I would be scheduling an amputation instead.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” d’Artagnan leaned forward, planting his hands firmly on his knees to hold himself upright. He took several deep breaths, letting them out slowly, until the wave of dizziness passed.

“Thank God for his floppy boots, eh?” Porthos huffed as he rubbed small circles on d’Artagnan’s back in a soothing manner.

“Doctor…?” Athos asked anxiously.

“Aramis will have to undergo surgery,” the doctor stated as he washed his hands and prepared the tools. “The damage to his ankle, fortunately, can be repaired; his foot should heal over the course of time. Aramis is very, very lucky—though he will be walking on crutches for a while.”

“Doctor, we are nurses and can assist you in surgery,” offered Sister Angelica. “We are all well trained in handling traumatic injuries.”

“Yes, nurses, I would appreciate the help,” Doctor Lemay replied. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” the doctor nodded to the worried Musketeers, “I’m due in surgery.”

 

**Later:**

“Do I still have both of my feet?” Aramis rasped in a whisper.

“Yes, mon cher, you still have two feet,” Porthos smiled. “Doctor Lemay and the nurses did a great job stitchin’ up your torn foot.”

“Your boot wasn’t so lucky, I’m afraid,” d’Artagnan quipped. 

“Wait… what do you mean?” Aramis asked weakly. “What… happened… to my boot?” 

“Well, your boot _was_ caught in a bear trap,” Athos paused, “just like your foot, if you remember.”

“But… what hap’nd to my boot?”

“The doctor cut it in two,” d’Artagnan replied bluntly.

“Cut it in two?”

“Would you rather not have a foot at all?” Athos raised his eyebrows, waiting.

“I have to buy new boots…”

“Yes, but you still have two feet, brother.” Porthos squeezed his friend softly on the shoulder.

“Thank God,” the group chorused.

“Which reminds me of a question,” Porthos said. The large man sat forward in his chair, watching his friend closely. “What were you doin’ wanderin’ around the forest anyway?”

“I was bored…” Aramis whispered as he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

TBC


	3. Vinaigre des Quatre Voleurs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why did I tell you to go wandering around out there, what in God’s name was I thinking?” Athos sat forward, resting his head in his hands, as the constant ringing of Aramis’ screams echoed in his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Considering the tension in chapter two, I think the boys (and You) deserve some 'brotherly affection' and tender, loving care, wouldn't you agree? Thank you all for reading!

_And one ran and filled a sponge full of vinegar, and put it on a reed, and gave Him to drink, saying, Let alone: let us see whether Elias will come to take Him down.  
Mark 15:36 KJV_

*****

“Aramis has been asleep all day; he feels rather warm to me,” Athos reported to Captain Tréville. He frowned as he wiped a cool cloth over the medic’s face. “Where is Doctor Lemay?”

“He is taking care of an emergency outside of Paris,” Tréville sighed. “His Majesty called on the doctor, so it seems we are on our own in caring for Aramis.”

“What about the nuns?” d’Artagnan asked as he and Porthos entered the infirmary after training exercises. “They are nurses, why aren’t they here?”

“Perhaps the nurses had to get back to where they were heading when I ran into them on the road.” Athos vacated his chair so Porthos could take his place at Aramis’ bedside. “Captain, did the nurses leave?”

“No, I asked them to stay nearby in case we needed them.” Captain Tréville watched as his lieutenant prepared to go after the nurses. “If they haven’t left on their own, they should be at _Les Bouvreuils.”_

“I’ll go see if they’re still there.” Athos donned his hat and turned to leave, but paused as he glanced back at the sleeping medic. “Let us hope they have not yet departed; I’m afraid Aramis has acquired a fever.”

“Do you think his wound is infected?” Porthos asked as he took Aramis’ hand in his own and squeezed it gently.

“That is why I am going after the nurses,” Athos muttered as he left the infirmary.

“Wait, I’m coming with you!” d’Artagnan yelled, running after his mentor.

“I need to get back to my paperwork.” Captain Tréville placed his hand on Porthos’ shoulder. “There is fresh water over there and clean cloths,” he pointed to the table. “If you will stay with Aramis and care for him until Athos returns with the nurses…”

“Of course I will,” Porthos replied without looking up. “Didn’t have to ask, Cap’n; I would’ve stayed, regardless.”

“I know you would have,” the captain smiled as he squeezed the shoulder under his hand. “Aramis is in your charge; take good care of him.”

“You know I will, sir.” 

Captain Tréville stood in the doorway watching as Porthos laid Aramis’ hand down before walking to the water basin to wet a clean cloth. He wrung out the excess water then returned to the medic’s side; he gently wiped away the sheen of sweat glistening on his skin. The captain smiled as the Musketeer tended to his friend, softly whispering words of comfort intended only for the ear of Aramis. Tréville returned to his work knowing that his medic was in very capable hands.

“You sure have a way of gettin’ yourself into unnecessary trouble, ‘Mis,” Porthos shook his head. “You and that restless spirit of yours, always lookin’ for action when you don’t need to. You’re never happy just sittin’ still; you have to go lookin’ for somethin’ to do, and this is what happens.”

“You could ‘ave brought a book, like Athos did,” Porthos chuckled at the thought. “Did he tell you what book he brought and what it was about? Oi, I never thought Athos would have read such a book.” The large Musketeer continued his ministrations, having moved on to wiping the damp, cool cloth over the fevered chest of his friend.

“Now, if you played cards like I do, you could ‘ave brought a deck and entertained yourself with a game or two. I’ve tried teachin’ you La Belle Lucie or Le Loi Salique, but you always got too distracted,” Porthos laughed. “It only took one pretty face to turn your head away; you never paid attention when I tried to teachin’ you the rules.” 

“I’m… not that bad,” Aramis rasped. The medic huffed with amusement as Porthos stopped his ministrations, surprised his patient was awake and had heard his one-way conversation.

“Nice to see you awake,” Porthos flashed his bright teeth in a large smile. “But I ‘ave to tell ya, yes, you _are_ that bad, mon ami. Now, d'Artagnan, he was easy to teach…”

“Rubbish,” Aramis smiled weakly. “I could take d'Artg'n…” 

“Rubbish,” the large Musketeer winked. “The pup’s a right fast learner… and he was good too.” Porthos smiled as his comment elicited a frown from Aramis. “I think he's my best student yet.” 

“You wound me, brother.” Aramis smiled as he put his fist over his heart and softly thumped.

Porthos allowed a hearty laugh at Aramis’ reaction. “Just givin’ due credit, my friend.”

“Well, it is indeed a good sign if the patient is awake and talking, even just a little.” Sister Angelica interrupted cheerfully as she and Sister Maria arrived with Athos. d’Artagnan soon followed carrying a handful of clean cloths and bandages.

“It is good to see him awake.” Athos tipped his head in appreciation at Porthos. “Whatever it is you did to wake him, and get him talking, I commend you,” he clapped his friend on the shoulder.

“Oi, it was nothin’,” Porthos smiled. “We were just talking ‘bout how good d'Artagnan was at playin’ cards.”

“Don’t believe everything he tells you, mon cher.” d’Artagnan rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I was terrible; he beat me at every game.”

“He always was… good at telling… stories,” Aramis whispered with a grin. He allowed his heavy eyes to slide closed as he slipped back into an intermittent sleep.

Sister Angelica put her hand on the medic’s brow and frowned. “Indeed, he is running a fever. We do have some remedies that should prove helpful. The first thing I need to do is check the wound for infection.”

“Is there anything you need us to do, Sister?” Athos asked. The lieutenant attempted to keep himself occupied, busy doing something—anything—as Aramis lay wounded. As long as he was busy, his mind wasn’t dwelling on…

“Yes, I need hot water for tea and some bread,” replied Sister Angelica. “I’m going to administer some oil that is easier to swallow with a bite of bread.”

“I’ll go and get those things for you.” Athos nodded before turning on his heel to leave.

“Sister Angelica, would you prepare the vinaigre des quatre voleurs?” Marie instructed the nun. “We will need enough for a rub as well.”

“Yes, Sister.”

“What do you plan to do, Sisters?” d’Artagnan asked, his brow crinkled in confusion.

“Have you not heard the tale of the Four Thieves and their concoction of vinegar and garlic?”

“Um, should I have heard such a story?” d’Artagnan asked, glancing between the nuns and Porthos, who merely shrugged as he raised his eyebrows.

“I’ve… heard… the story.” Aramis peeled open his eyes, showing a sliver of his dark brown irises. “The vinegar and garlic… helped them to survive… the plague, Black Death.”

“What?” Porthos blurted out with surprise. “Are you serious about this? Is that a real story or somethin’ someone made up?”

“No one really knows if it’s true or not,” Sister Angelica laughed. “It has been told in so many different manners, no one can confirm its truth. Some say the thieves came from Marseille, while others say Toulouse; even the date of when the thieves survived Black Death changes, depending on who is telling the tale.”

“Then how do you know if this… concoction will work?” Porthos squared his shoulders, setting his jaw. “I don’t like it,” he said. The Musketeer was quite wary of any so-called magical potions being used on his friend, or any of his friends for that matter. Growing up in the Court, he saw his share of quacks, each professing they had the miraculous ‘cure-all’ to any ailment.

“Oh, it works, Monsieur, I can assure you,” Sister Maria smiled. “I have used the vinegar mixture for many years, and I will swear by its healing benefits.”

“We always keep a base mixture of it with us for unexpected occasions such as this,” Sister Angelica chimed in. 

“Why haven’t you ever used it, ‘Mis?”

“It requires… too many herbs… can’t afford it.” Aramis stiffened, wincing in pain as the nuns began unwrapping the bandages from his ankle. His face twisted as he squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden stabbing pain that took his breath away. “Ah, damn,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

“I apologize, Monsieur Aramis.” Sister Maria frowned, making a _tsk tsk_ sound. “The wound does indeed show early signs of infection; the ankle is inflamed, quite red and warm to the touch. We need to get this treated immediately before the infection worsens and spreads. Let us hope that we have caught this early enough so that it does not affect his health too severely.”

“I am awake and can… hear you talk about… about me, Sister.” Aramis huffed as he ghosted a smile. “I am… a medic…”

“Forgive me, Monsieur, I do not mean to cause you worry; nor do I mean to treat you as a faceless patient.”

“Not worried… ‘cept… how this is going to make me smell.” 

“Indeed, Monsieur Aramis!” Sister Angelica laughed as she patted the medic’s hand. “You will be quite aromatic after your treatment.”

“You will either scare away any visitors by the odor of the garlic,” Sister Maria paused, “or draw the hungry, as you will smell of dinner cooking at the corner café!”

“Really, Sister Maria!” Nurse Angelica uttered in jest.

Porthos and d’Artagnan burst out in laughter just as Athos returned with the requested goods. “Did I miss something amusing?” the lieutenant raised his eyebrows in question.

“The Sisters were just telling us the tale of the Four Thieves; supposedly, they stole vinegar and garlic and then survived the…”

“… the plague, Black Death,” Athos interrupted the Gascon with a grin. “Yes, I have heard of the tale.”

“Is there anything you do _not_ know, my friend?” Porthos queried with a grin.

“There are a few things of which I am lacking in knowledge,” Athos replied cleverly.

“Don’t get… him started, Porth’s.” Aramis motioned his chin toward the lieutenant, who merely ghosted a smile before averting his eyes to the floor.

“Alright, the first thing I want you to do, Monsieur Aramis, is take this tablespoon of vinegar with some bread.” Angelica held a plate with a piece of bread saturated in the mixture in front of the patient.

Aramis stared at the plate, suddenly hesitant.

“Help me sit him up just a bit so he can eat this then wash it down with a sip of water, please,” she asked of Porthos and d’Artagnan.

Aramis crinkled his nose at the smell emanating from the plate in his hands. “No,” he said, swallowing hard as he pushed the plate away.

“Either you eat this bite of bread, young man, or I will feed it to you myself,” Sister Maria threatened. “One… two…”

“Alright, Sister… I’ll eat it.” Aramis opened his mouth and popped the bread in. His face twisted with disgust as he chewed quickly then swallowed with a _gulp!_ “God have mercy…”

“God will not have any mercy on you if you do not finish your medicine!” Sister Angelica scooped up the remaining liquid on the plate with a spoon. “Open your mouth,” she ordered.

Porthos and d’Artagnan exchanged glances, doing their best to stifle the laughter threatening to bubble forth. The hard glare from Athos immediately doused the duo’s amusement. 

Aramis opened his mouth and obediently took the spoonful of mixture, swallowing it quickly. “Ach, that’s foul!” he choked. “Water…”

Porthos handed him a cup and watched with amusement as the medic downed the water in one swallow. The large Musketeer chuckled as he wiped the dribble of water running down the medic’s chin.

“There, the medicine is gone and you can rest now.” Porthos took the cup as he and d’Artagnan settled Aramis back down on the bed so he was lying comfortably.

“Now I am going to administer the vinegar to the wound.” Angelica warned, nodding to the men to be prepared. “This may sting, so please be ready to hold him secure.”

“Are you ready, ‘Mis?” Porthos whispered in Aramis’ ear.

Aramis nodded but then instantly bucked as the mixture touched his wound. Strong hands held the medic in place as the vinegar stung his foot like fire, causing him to scream out in agony. The screams ceased as the medic’s tense body went lax, causing the Musketeers to gasp with alarm.

“It is alright, Messieurs,” Nurse Angelica assured. “Aramis has passed out again,” she sighed. “Considering the torment this vinegar causes, it is for the best; let us finish quickly and leave him to rest.”

“We're going to stay here with our brother tonight.” Athos stated to the two nurses once the ministrations were complete. “There are plenty of beds open if we get tired.”

“Of course, we will leave you alone with Aramis for a while; we’ll return to check on him later.” Sister Angelica nodded. “Your captain has kindly provided a room for us here so we will take our leave and get some rest. Should an emergency arise, please come and get us.”

“Rest assured that we will, Sister, should anything come up,” Athos replied. “d’Artagnan, please escort the Sisters to their room.”

“Of course.” d’Artagnan stood at the doorway waiting for the nurses to gather their belongings. 

Athos took a chair and placed it on one side of Aramis’ bed while Porthos plopped down in a chair on the opposite side. “How long do you think he’ll be unconscious?”

“I don’t know.” Athos sighed as he took the medic’s hand in his own. He placed his free hand on the fevered forehead and frowned, shaking his head at the heat beneath his hand. “You had better go fetch some more cold water; we’re going to need to keep him cool over the next several hours.”

“Of course,” Porthos grabbed the empty bowl. “Think I’ll stop by the kitchen to see if Serge can scrounge up somethin’ for us to eat… seein’ that it’s going to be a long night.”

Athos said nothing but nodded in acknowledgement as he swept a strand of sweaty bangs from Aramis’ face. The lieutenant sat beside his friend saying nothing for several minutes as he clung tightly to his limp hand.

“I should have told you to bring a book,” Athos finally whispered. “I don’t know why I didn’t think to remind you…” his voice trailed. “You could have brought your Bible; you said recently that you wanted to start studying again.”

Athos dropped Aramis’ hand to fidget with the blanket. “What was it that you wanted to study?” he asked as he stared up at the ceiling. “Oh yes, the four Gospels—Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.” 

“This is my fault… if I hadn’t told you to go searching for that _damned_ branch, this never would have happened.” Athos sat back and scrubbed a hand down his face. “This was supposed to be an easy assignment,” he scoffed. “Nothing is ever _easy_ with us, is it?”

“Why did I tell you to go wandering around out there, we were supposed to be watching the road.” Athos sat forward, resting his head in his hands, as the constant ringing of Aramis’ screams echoed in his mind. He dropped his hands and allowed his head to hang down with regret. 

“You were fine right where you were sitting," he huffed. "There were plenty of branches where you were sitting, so why did I tell you to go searching for more? It was damn foolish of me,” he muttered angrily. 

Athos took Aramis’ hand once again then sighed deeply. “You almost lost your foot because I told you to go find more branches. Why?” he questioned in a low voice. The Gascon returned earlier from escorting the nuns but had stayed quietly in the doorway, rather than interrupting. However, after overhearing the heartfelt confession, laden with such sorrow, he moved to lay a reassuring hand on the lieutenant’s shoulder, squeezing it lightly.

“Athos, this is not your fault,” d’Artagnan uttered softly. “You had no way of knowing this would happen; you had no way of knowing that trap was hidden underneath the leaves. You cannot blame yourself for this accident.”

“I _am_ to blame,” Athos replied brusquely. “I told Aramis to get a larger branch to whittle,” the lieutenant sneered, “to keep himself occupied so I could read my book. There is no one to blame but myself.”

“You are wrong, Athos,” d’Artagnan retorted angrily. “If you want to place blame, then blame the sadistic person who hid that trap underneath the pile of leaves. Blame _that_ person for nearly costing Aramis his foot.” 

“I nearly cost him his foot…” Athos muttered, ignoring the Gascon’s words.

“Dammit, Athos!” d’Artagnan exploded. “Why should you take the blame for that gruesome injury to Aramis’ foot?” he pointed angrily toward the bed. “This was not your fault! The fault rests _solely_ on the person who hid that trap, since it’s _his_ trap that almost bore its teeth right through the foot of a Musketeer. There is _no one_ to blame for this accident but the person who laid that trap!”

“I tried to get it off,” Athos lamented. “I didn’t have the strength…”

“Of course, you wouldn’t have the strength, Athos.” d’Artagnan sat in the chair opposite his mentor. “Those devices are meant to hold a large bear, my friend. I would have been very impressed with your strength if you had managed to open the jaws on your own.”

“That would have been some feat,” Athos huffed. The Musketeer lieutenant seemed to shut down, as though withdrawing inside his own tortured thoughts. His eyes stared ahead, gazing at an invisible scene while absently rubbing his thumb over Aramis’ hand.

d’Artagnan watched his mentor with concern but remained quiet. Nothing more could be said to alleviate Athos’ regret, so he left his friend to his own private thoughts. He picked up Aramis’ other hand and frowned at the heat he feel radiating from the skin. He reached over the grab the cloth, still wet and quite chilled from sitting unused.

The Gascon placed the cold cloth on the medic’s head, causing him to flinch at the touch. “Sorry, but we need to cool you down, brother,” d’Artagnan apologized. He continued smoothing the damp cloth over Aramis, frowning at the heat rising from his skin. “I pray your fever isn’t worsening.”

“I wish the captain hadn’t split us up,” d’Artagnan spoke glumly to Aramis. He was crestfallen at the fevered state of his friend, especially since it was caused by such a senseless and unnecessary accident. “If we had stayed together, we could have all played cards and Porthos might not have picked on me so brutally in lansequenet.”

“At least, you never would have gotten your foot hurt because you wouldn’t have been bored in the first place. On second thought,” d’Artagnan huffed with amusement, “if all of us had played, my loss would have been much more embarrassing. You should have seen the pile of rocks Porthos had in front of him! It’s a good thing we weren’t playing for money; I would have lost the shirt off my back.”

“You would have lost more than your shirt,” Athos quipped, giving a slight grin to his younger brother.

“Athos is right, li’l brother.” Porthos laughed heartedly as he entered the infirmary balancing a plate full of food with a bowl of cold water, splashing some of the liquid as he walked. “You might owe me your entire wardrobe.”

“Probably true,” d’Artagnan laughed along with Porthos. Athos quietly sat back in the chair, watching as his two friends shared a moment of laughter. 

“You three donnn make it eassy to get any sssleep,” Aramis slurred sleepily. He peeled open his eyes then licked his lips. “Thirssty…”

Porthos poured a little fresh water into his cup then handed it to d’Artagnan. Athos lifted Aramis’ head so he could drink without spilling the liquid all over himself. 

“While you’re awake,” Athos said, looking intently into Aramis’ eyes, “it’s time for more of that medicine. Do you want it with bread, or are you feeling courageous enough to take a spoonful plain… maybe with a sip of wine?”

“N-noo mmoore medicine… sstufff isss awful,” Aramis protested.

“Not an option,” Athos countered. “The nurses said you have to take the medicine every few hours if you want to get better.”

“Nooo…”

“Aramis, you have an infection,” Athos reminded tersely. “You can beat this, but we have to combat the infection—both inside and out.”

“Alwayss the ssoldier,” he smiled at his friend.”

“So what will it be, eh?” Porthos interjected as he held a spoon in one hand and a piece of bread in the other. “With bread, or plain… followed with a sip o’ wine?” 

“Not hungry,” Aramis sighed. “I’ll take it plain.”

“You are brave, mon cher!” Porthos poured the vinegar mixture into the large spoon then carefully poured the medicine into Aramis’ open mouth. The large Musketeer cleared his throat as the medic began turning various shades of green. “Don’t you dare throw that back up now!”

“Drink this, quickly,” Athos said, handing over the cup of wine. Aramis drank it down, swirling the wine around in his mouth to remove the bitter taste of vinegar. “My God…” 

“Is it really that bad?” d’Artagnan asked. He took a whiff of the vinegar mixture in the jar and instantly grimaced at the odor. “Merde, I’m sorry for asking!”

Aramis scrunched his eyes closed, doing his best to keep his stomach contents down. He paled as he fought against the nausea, increasingly looking as though he would lose the battle with his churning belly.

“If you throw that medicine up, brother, we’re just goin’ to give you more!” Porthos threatened.

“God help me… keep it down,” Aramis prayed, almost chanting in desperation. “Keep it down… keep it down… keep it down…”

d’Artagnan dipped a cloth in the bowl of cold water then ran it over Aramis’ forehead and neck, soothing away the nausea with its refreshing touch. “Shh, it’ll be alright.”

“Think you’ll make it?” Athos asked, gently squeezing the medic’s hand.

“He’ll make it,” Porthos interjected. “He’s stronger than he thinks.”

Aramis relaxed at the calming effect of d’Artagnan’s gentle ministrations. “Try to go to sleep… I’ll take care of you.” 

Slowly, the nausea and heavy lines of pain on Aramis’ face began to smooth away. “Iss not… your fault… ‘Thos.” The medic whispered, lightly squeezing Athos’ hand before his breath evened and his head lolled to the side. 

“What did he mean by that?” Porthos questioned. He glanced between Athos and d’Artagnan, but neither seemed willing to offer a reply. 

“Just sleep, brother.” Athos whispered quietly as he pulled the blanket under Aramis’ chin. “Get the rest you need so your body will heal, my friend. I’ll be right here with you all night…”

“Correction, _we_ will be here with you all night,” d’Artagnan smiled warmly at his mentor.

“Better believe it, brother,” Porthos added, staring at Athos. “Guess you’re stuck wit’ us.”

_“We_ will be right here, beside you all night.” Athos corrected, blinking back a mist of tears. “We’re all right here with you, Aramis, and I promise, we’re not going anywhere.”

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Vinaigre des Quatre Voleurs** translates to _Vinegar of the Four Thieves._ The mixture was a concoction of vinegar infused with herbs, spices and garlic that was believed to protect users from the plague. The recipe for this vinegar mixture has almost as many variations as its legend.
> 
> One such vinegar recipe (hung in the Museum of Paris in 1937) is said to have been an original copy of the recipe posted on the walls of Marseilles during an episode of the plague. This is a copy:
> 
> Take three pints of strong white wine vinegar, add a handful of each of wormwood, meadowsweet, wild marjoram and sage, fifty cloves of garlic, two ounces of campanula roots, two ounces of angelic, rosemary and horehound and three large measures of champhor. Place the mixture in a container for fifteen days, strain and keep in bottle. Use by rubbing it on the hands, ears and temples from time to time when approaching a plague victim.
> 
> *****
> 
> Modern beliefs for users not contracting the plague was that the herbal concoction contained natural flea repellent, since the flea was the carrier for the plague. Wormwood has properties similar to cedar as an insect repellent, as does sage, garlic, camphor, rosemary, campanula. Meadowsweet was used mainly to mask odors of the decomposing bodies.
> 
> The usual story states that a group of thieves, during a European plague outbreak (sometimes storytellers referred to the Black Death specifically), were robbing the dead or the sick. When they were caught, they offered to exchange their secret recipe, which had allowed them to commit the robberies without catching the disease, in exchange for leniency. The city in which this happened is usually said to be Marseille or Toulouse France; and the time period is anywhere between the 14th and 18th century, depending on the storyteller.
> 
> I can’t imagine the flavor of such a concoction, but anything that has 50 cloves of garlic would be extremely overpowering! This mixture would surely keep the vampires away.


	4. Death and Deception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Forgive me, Monsieur Aramis,” the nun whispered softly. “You have every right to be angry for what I am about to reveal,” she closed her eyes. “I am so ashamed; may the Lord deal with us as He so chooses.”

_For there is no difference between Jew and Gentile—the same Lord is Lord of all and richly blesses all who call on Him.  
Romans 10:12 NIV_

*****

The Musketeers watched their brother suffer with fever into the long hours of the night. Fresh candles were lit as the old flames burned low, casting eerie shadows across the dark infirmary. The men kept constant vigil by Aramis’ bedside, each taking turns swabbing his fevered brow while murmuring soft words of comfort in his ear.

Aramis tossed his head side to side as haunting images tormented his fevered dreams. He mumbled incoherently between outbursts of wild screams, as though revisiting the bloody fields of Savoy or other sanguinary battlefields, if only in his mind. 

Lines of worry deeply etched the faces of the three Musketeers as Aramis languished over the long hours. The sick man shifted uncomfortably in the bed, writhing in a fevered state. His face glistened with sweat, despite the cold cloth continuously expunging perspiration from his skin. Brief moments of consciousness allowed for sips of soothing, warm ginger and peppermint tea, and the occasional swallow of the vinegar mixture, before lapsing again into a restless sleep.

The patient lying on the bed hardly resembled the vibrant, exuberant man so revered by his brothers. As the hours passed, the Spaniard’s dark locks clumped and plastered to his sweaty face, contrasting with the paleness of his skin. Fever flushed the medic’s cheeks, giving him the rosiness of being kissed by winter’s cold.

Finally, as the darkness waned and morning light began to seep through the windows, the room was still; the only sounds were the soft snores chorusing between its walls. The weary caretakers had fallen into an exhausted sleep after many hours of fretting, wearing them down to nearly depletion.

Aramis awoke in a daze. The fog in his brain hindered any lucid memory of where he was or why. He peeled his eyes open but saw only shadows of figures enveloped in a swirling grey haze. The room spun wildly; he clamped his eyes shut against the dizziness threatening to overcome him, almost causing his stomach to rebel.

He waited for the dizziness to pass before cracking his eyes open just enough to stare at the plain wooden beams directly above his bed. The sound of snoring captured his attention; he turned his head left to find Porthos sleeping soundly in the chair beside his bed. The medic’s mouth twitched upward at the sight of the large man slouched and folded quite unnaturally into the small piece of furniture.

He turned his head right and was surprised to find Athos slumped against his pillow, half in his chair, half on the bed with his head near Aramis’ own. His vision blurred as tears moistened his eyes; he resisted the urge to run a comforting hand through the wily hair but thought it best to not wake his exhausted brother. 

Aramis blinked back the tears as he continued his search around the room. His eyes roamed but then stopped as he spotted the figure of d’Artagnan’s lanky body sleeping soundly at the foot of his bed. Once more, his mouth twitched with the ghost of a smile; his heart finally content to find all of his brothers at his side—just as they had promised.

He suppressed a dry cough as it suddenly bubbled from his chest. He tried to swallow it down, but his throat felt so dry he faintly wondered if he had ingested sand during the night.

“Ath’s,” Aramis rasped with a squeak. His parched mouth felt like wads of cotton had been stuffed between his teeth. He cleared his throat and tried again, “Ath’s… water…”

“Mphff…” Athos raised his head at the sound. He blinked his tired eyes until his vision cleared; confusion creased his brow with heavy lines. Pain shot through his core as the stiff muscles in his back screamed out from sleeping at such an odd angle for… how long? “What…?”

“Athos,” Aramis repeated. At last, the call for help penetrated the fog encapsulating the weary lieutenant—alas alerting him to awareness. “Water…”

“Aramis, you’re awake!” Athos declared with a smile spreading across his lips. “How are you feeling, any better?” The Musketeer fetched a cup of water then held it to the medic’s lips, allowing him to drink slowly. 

“Better,” Aramis smiled after swallowing the water. He took another sip then leaned back against his pillow, wearing a satisfied smile on his face.

Porthos and d’Artagnan stirred at hearing the voices; their tired eyes widened with happy surprise at finding Aramis awake, drinking water and seemingly doing better. 

“Aramis!” The two men jumped to their feet and reached out to touch Aramis, as if to confirm their friend was really conscious.

“You scared us half to death last night, brother.” Porthos growled playfully. “Don’t do it again!”

“You really had us worried, mon cher,” d’Artagnan smiled. “Maybe there is some truth to that ‘Four Thieves’ superstition, huh?”

“I told you that the garlic and vinegar mixture worked!” Sister Maria interrupted as she entered the infirmary with Sister Angelica. “Now, whether the ‘superstition’ of the Four Thieves is true or not, we do not know; the origins are difficult to determine. Regardless, the medicine _does_ work.”

“Oui Madame, it seems so.” d’Artagnan nodded politely then stepped back to give the nurses room to examine the patient.

“It is very good to see you awake, Monsieur Aramis.” Sister Angelica placed the back of her palm against his forehead, checking his temperature. “Your color is pale and you are still a little warm but, considering your condition last night, this is a vast improvement. Allow me to check your wound; I’m going to apply more of the vinegar mixture and then rebandage it. Afterward, we all must allow Aramis to get more rest—it is too early to let our guard down.”

The nurses set out at tending to the wound, reapplying the medicine around both sides of the sutured ankle. The Musketeers held Aramis firmly on the bed as he once again bucked against the painful, yet necessary treatment, of his ankle. 

Aramis endured the ordeal as best he could, controlling his breathing as the vinegar rekindled the scorching pain emanating from his foot. Rivulets of sweat streamed down his face, soaking his hair, by the time the nurses finished wrapping the long strips of cloth around the ankle. 

“The wound is looking much better,” Nurse Maria nodded, “but it is going to take time to heal. The infection appears to be dissipating; the skin is no longer warm to the touch, which is a very good sign. Your foot should heal just fine as long as we remain vigilant and stay ahead of the infection.”

Aramis merely nodded weakly.

“Well, I think the perfect remedy is some hot chamomile and mint tea _after_ Monsieur Aramis takes another dose of his medicine,” Nurse Angelica said as she held the spoon ready. “If you are to stay ahead of the infection, you must take your medicine like a good patient.” 

Aramis swallowed hard, repulsion twisting his face as the color drained from his skin. “I’d almost rather take my chances… with the infection… than swallow any more of that… sour medicine, Sister.”

“I do apologize for the pungent flavor of the medicine but the healing power of the mixture makes the temporary displeasure worth it,” Angelica suggested with a half-grin.

“I beg to differ,” Aramis frowned. The medic scowled, grimaced and coughed as he took the swallow of the foul mixture. Once again, sweat beaded on his brow as he concentrated hard at keeping the contents of his stomach down. “I can’t take much more of that…”

“You were supposed to be training the new recruits on their marksmanship skills today, mon ami.” Athos quickly stepped in, attempting to distract the medic by getting his mind off his discomfort. “Perhaps I can reassign another…”

Athos was interrupted by a loud commotion outside in the garrison courtyard. The Musketeers exchanged alarmed glances at the sudden shouting; their eyes narrowed as they strained to listen to what the commotion was about. 

“What the bloody…” Porthos began but was cut short.

“Quiet!” Athos snapped just as Captain Tréville rushed into the infirmary, his features marked with anxiety.

“We just received word of an attack to the Red Guards traveling east, ahead of His Eminence, to Vincennes,” the captain reported. 

“Was the cardinal hurt?” d’Artagnan shot to his feet at the news.

“No, the cardinal was turned back and was not harmed, but apparently the Huguenots got word of the cardinal traveling to Vincennes and were waiting in ambush. His Majesty has called on the Musketeers to assist,” Captain Tréville declared. “We leave immediately!”

The nurses gasped aloud “Oh no!” they yelled, grabbing onto each other at the sudden, horrible news.

The captain of the Musketeers stood back, waiting as his three men rushed from the room. He gave Aramis an apologetic look before turning on his heel to follow the men to the horses. 

“No, our brothers cannot be involved in this,” Angelica cried. “They cannot be!”

“I should be going with them!” Aramis flopped back against the pillows in frustration. “I’m useless in here; I should be out there with my brothers, not lying here in bed.”

“You are in that bed, young man, because you were severely hurt,” countered Sister Maria. “Your body is still fighting an infection that could have killed you last night. Your place—your _only_ place—is right there in that bed!”

“If I hadn’t gone wandering off…”

“Enough! I will not stand here and listen to you feel sorry for yourself,” Nurse Angelica snapped as the tension in the room caused tempers to flare.

Aramis was momentarily stunned. He opened his mouth to respond but gave second thought at the nuns glaring stares. The medic swallowed hard, deciding against further protests.

“I should make you that tea now,” Sister Maria said, her voice tense. The nurse gathered the herbs and the hot water at the table but with shaking hands, she knocked over the pewter cup and sent it clanking across the floor. 

“I cannot remain calm as though nothing is wrong while our brothers may be in danger!” Angelica plopped down on the cot and began to cry. “I’m tired of the lies, Maria; we must reveal the truth.”

“I think you are right, Angelica,” Sister Maria agreed, shaking her head somberly. “I will go find Gabrielle and tell her what has happened.”

Aramis watched the two nurses, his brow furrowing in confusion. “What is going on, where is Sister Maria off to?” The medic pushed himself up on the bed as realization dawned on his face. “Why do you both keep saying ‘our brothers’?”

“I’m sorry,” Angelica sighed deeply. “There is something I must confess to you.”

“I don’t think I like the sound of this…”

“Forgive me, Monsieur Aramis,” the nun whispered softly. “You have every right to be angry for what I am about to reveal,” she closed her eyes. “I am so ashamed; may the Lord deal with us as He so chooses.”

**On the Road East, Near Vincennes:**

The Musketeers galloped toward the village of Vincennes not knowing what they would find upon their arrival. Thundering hooves pounded on the road toward the skirmish between the Red Guards and the Huguenots which, by their arrival, had escalated out of control into a bloody melee.

The sound of musket fire echoed over the hills just ahead, spurring the band of Musketeers to gallop faster. They rushed to join alongside soldiers—with whom the Musketeers did not ordinarily share amicable relations—to fight a mutual enemy of the crown and of the church.

As the Musketeers crested the final hill, smoke from spent musket fire clouded the air above the killing field. Scattered bodies lay unmoving in the grass as pools of blood soaked into the dirt, staining the ground.

“My God!” Captain Tréville exclaimed with utter shock at the ghastly sight. “Let us dismount here,” he whispered to Athos. “We will use the trees for cover as we move to reinforce the Red Guards. Keep out of the line of sight as much as possible.”

“We will dismount here,” Athos ordered the men behind him. “It appears the Huguenots are firing from that tree line across the field. We will stay within these trees for cover until we join with the Guards. Stay behind the trees and keep your heads down. Let’s move!”

**Musketeer Garrison, Infirmary:**

 

“This is not easy for me to confess, Monsieur Aramis.” Angelica wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “However, in light of what has happened, I cannot continue to lie anymore.”

“Sister, what has you so grieved?” Aramis asked, his muscles tensing in preparation of bad news. “What is wrong?”

Angelica took in a deep breath then let it out in a slow release. “Maria, Gabrielle and I are not who we profess; we have deceived you.”

“What are you talking about?” Aramis questioned with growing alarm.

“We are not,” she swallowed the lump in her throat, “we are not really Sisters of Sainte Madeleine. We were originally traveling toward Vincennes to join with our brethren, our fellow followers of... of the Evangelical Lutheran Church, when we ran into your leader, Athos.”

“Pardieu,” Aramis gasped. “No, I cannot believe this…”

Angelica ignored the gasp from Aramis and continued her confession. “Our job was to assimilate with the people of Vincennes, offering our services at Sainte-Chapelle de Vincennes as cover.”

Aramis remained quiet, letting his head hang as he listened.

“We were to keep our ears open for word of the meeting with the cardinal and his bishops, in regard to when the meeting would take place and what would be discussed. We just wanted to know if there were plans to attack our people; we meant no harm!”

“Wait a minute, I don’t… I don’t understand.” Aramis shook his head, his brow creased with disbelief. “What are you saying?”

“I am not Catholic, Monsieur Aramis,” Angelica replied in a whisper. “I am Lutheran, more specifically of the Evangelical Lutheran Church; as are Maria and Gabrielle also. We are missionaries, including the men with whom we are traveling. We only just recently joined with a group of Huguenots—greater numbers means louder voices.”

“Mother Mary…” Aramis tipped his cup, spilling tea over the side of his bed. “We were on that road to look out for Huguenot activity; it was suspected that the Huguenots have moved north from Créteil...” 

“I did not like being joined with the Huguenots, but we agreed as there is strength in numbers. We are followers of Martin Luther; we are separate from the Calvanists—the true Huguenots you seem to despise so deeply.”

“You have been lying to us all this time,” Aramis paused, “and yet you want to argue about the specifics of your faith!” The medic threw his cup across the room; the pewter goblet bounced off the wall then clanked across the floor. He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed to stand, but was overcome with nausea and a wave of dizziness. “Oh God,” he collapsed back onto the bed, falling sideways with a moan.

“Aramis!” Angelica grabbed the medic by the shoulders to stop his momentum over the edge toward the floor. She pushed him onto his back and then pulled his legs up until he was lying flat and proper on the bed. “You mustn’t get up; you will only hurt yourself worse.”

“Are you _really_ a nurse, or did you lie about that also?” Aramis gritted angrily through clenched teeth.

“No! I mean, yes… I mean... I’m sorry.” Angelica sighed heavily. “Yes, I am really a nurse, as Maria and Gabrielle are as well; we did not lie about that. As nurses, we traveled with missionaries to the Kingdom of Denmark, helping treat their soldiers and the innocent victims who have suffered in war.”

“Then how could you be involved with such a group?” Aramis sneered. “The Huguenots are _murderers!_ They have killed our people; they have killed good citizens of France… sons of France!”

“And _your_ Church—you Catholics—have also killed good citizens of France and sons of France!” Angelica retorted angrily, her fists clenched. “Are we not also citizens of France? The Protestants have been relegated to non-citizens—our rights have been stripped away. We are sons and daughters with no country! Our native country will not claim us, but would have us wiped out of existence. As Protestants, we are no better than enemies of France.”

“The Huguenots are enemies of the crown…”

“We are not the enemy, Monsieur Aramis! We are being murdered because our faith differs from the _true_ ruler of France—the Catholic Church,” Angelica cried out with exasperation. She angrily wiped away the tears streaming down her cheeks.

“How dare you,” Aramis growled. “This is heresy!”

“I was born in Orléans; Maria was born in Meaux; Gabrielle was born in Paris; Jacques was born in Lyon; and Jean in Paris.” Angelica declared, standing her ground. “Are we not also French, are we not also your countrymen?”

“My countrymen are being murdered by your people…”

“My people? Jacques served six years in the French army, but now his service is no longer recognized! Why, did he not also serve his king and his country? As citizens of France, do we not all serve the same king, King Louis?” Angelica sat back down beside Aramis. “Are we not all the king’s loyal subjects?”

Aramis sat quietly, wringing his hands in the blanket. He kept his head bowed low, refusing to meet her eyes.

“Why then are we treated so differently simply because of our faith?” Angelica reached out to stop Aramis from wringing the blanket. “Do we not all serve the same God?”

“There is only one God.” Aramis looked up but quickly dropped his gaze downward to his lap.

“Is our God different from the Catholic God?” Angelica whispered. “Or would you admit that we all worship the very same God?”

“There is only one…” his voice trailed.

“The one and _only_ God, who calls us _all_ His sons and daughters,” Angelica interjected. “The very same God who does not segregate His fallen in Heaven based on the faith they chose in this life. Does our God care if we are Protestant or Catholic; Jew or Gentile?”

“No,” Aramis whispered softly.

“No, God does not,” the nurse smiled. “The glaring difference between the Catholics and the Protestants is that _we_ refuse to serve the Catholic Church of France; we will not serve His Eminence, nor abide by his demands.” 

“I do not serve His Eminence!”

“If you are Catholic, you do indeed!” Angelica shot to her feet and grabbed the back of her chair for support. “We serve God, not the Church… and certainly not His Eminence.”

“But killing is not the way of God; it is unnecessary bloodshed,” Aramis countered. He let out a breath as he dragged a hand through his unruly hair. “Killing accomplishes nothing for either side.”

“You are right, Aramis.” Angelica agreed as she sat on the edge of the bed. She looked at the medic as her eyes blurred with tears. “Historically, our people have been killed for rejecting the Church while trying to worship the same God as you worship. We have been persecuted for spreading the gospel of our faith and for helping the less fortunate.”

“The king has given the Protestants freedom to worship openly,” Aramis countered.

“You are wrong, Monsieur Aramis. The king professes our religious freedoms—all the while trying to convert us to Catholicism— but then he punishes us if we do not convert. We are hated by the Church, and despised for not serving His Eminence,” her voice cracked. “We just want to be left alone; with _true_ freedom to worship God the same as you—without fear of repercussion. Is that too much to ask, Aramis?”

“It is not… it is not too much to ask.” Aramis met Angelica’s eyes and held her gaze until the nurse lowered her eyes, her cheeks flushing. “I have not looked at this situation from the Huguenot… er, the Protestant point of view. I side with the Church, and with His Majesty, because that is how I was raised; it is how I have lived and performed my job. I had no idea…”

Suddenly, the garrison was buzzing with yelling, snorting horses and the clanking of swords. Heavy booted feet rushed toward the infirmary, bursting in the door carrying bleeding and wounded men.

“What happened?” Aramis cried out, though he was ignored for the moment as more wounded Musketeers were brought in. The medic tried to get a glimpse of the wounded, taking inventory of their injuries. Two wounded men; one with a bleeding head injury and the other with a torn shoulder. A third man limped in with his knee bleeding from a gunshot wound; a fourth man with a bleeding leg.

Porthos arrived carrying a limp Musketeer in his arms, the identity of whom was hidden by the crowds of men filling the room.

“Who is that, who is hurt?” Aramis called out, moving side to side as he tried to get a better view of the new patient. 

Porthos broke through the crowd gently carrying his precious armload to the cot next to Aramis.

“Madre de Dios!” Aramis gasped at the unmoving form of Athos. Blood dripped from a wound just above his left eye, marking his face with red lines that streaked across his skin. “Oh God, what happened?” he asked, trying to get up from his bed.

“No, you must not move,” Angelica stopped the panicked medic. “You must lie still; you cannot help him, Aramis. I will tend to his care!”

Just then, Maria and Gabrielle rushed into the infirmary looking for Angelica. 

“Get these women out of here!” yelled a Musketeer.

“No, we are all nurses!” yelled Angelica over the noise of the crowd. “We can help the men—please! I can tend to Athos; I am quite experienced in battlefield wounds. I need hot water, clean cloths, cotton, sutures, wine, and, of course, the surgical tools…”

“Go, get everything together of which the nurse requested!” Captain Tréville ordered, sending the men scurrying. “Until Dr. Lemay arrives, the nurses are in charge of tending to the wounded and you will do as they say. All unnecessary personnel, I want out of this room—we cannot have this crowd in here.”

The room soon emptied, save a few men who were carrying the requested supplies, who then deposited them on tables near the bed. Two more Musketeers stood firmly in place beside their wounded brothers, unwilling to obey the captain’s general order to leave.

“We’re not going anywhere, Captain,” d’Artagnan stated firmly.

“Our place is right here.” Porthos crossed his arms in a show of defiance. He squared his jaw as he raised his chin up with a snort. “Our place is here… right beside our brothers.”

Aramis stared in horror at the bloodied form of his brother as he lay unmoving on the cot next to his; the lieutenant's face paled in stark contrast to the deep red blood oozing from the jagged head wound. 

“Mon Dieu, what happened to him?” The medic’s eyes widened as he watched the blood stream from Athos’ temple, roll across his ear and onto the floor…

… drip… drip… drip...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The members of the Protestant faith, including the Huguenots, had been granted religious, political and military freedom by Henry IV with his _Edict of Nantes_ (1598, granting French Protestants the same rights as French Catholics). Later, following renewed warfare, they were stripped of their political and military privileges by King Louis XIII, though they retained their religious freedoms. Things between the Protestants and the Catholics took a serious turn for the worse under King Louis XIV as he revoked the Edict of Nantes, abolishing all rights of the Protestants.
> 
> King Louis XIII sought to convert Protestants to Catholicism, through the use of soldiers—Dragonnades—stationed in the homes of Protestants, to force them to convert. Under this duress, many Protestants converted to Catholicism; while others fled the country. The penalties for preaching or attending a Protestant assembly were severe: life terms in the galleys for men, imprisonment for women; confiscation of all property was common.
> 
> The Huguenots were inspired by the writings of **John Calvin.** Huguenot numbers peaked near an estimated two million by 1562, concentrated mainly in the southern and central parts of France. As Huguenots gained influence Catholic hostility grew.
> 
> The Calvanists based their belief in salvation through individual faith without a need for the intercession of the church hierarchy; they also believed in an individual's right to interpret scriptures for themselves. This placed the French Protestants in direct theological conflict with the Catholic Church and the King of France; they were accused of heresy against the Catholic government and the established religion of France. 
> 
> At the height of the persecution was the infamous **St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre** in 1572, known as one of the worst mass killings of Huguenots in history. It is believed to have been instigated by Catherine de Medici whose Catholic daughter Margaret was to marry Protestant Henry III of Navarre (Henry IV of France). Several thousand Protestants, who had come to Paris for Henry's wedding, were killed, as well as thousands more throughout the country in the days that followed. Henry narrowly escaped death, thanks to the help of his wife and his promise to convert to Catholicism. The massacre began on the night of 23–24 August 1572. The slaughter spread throughout Paris, lasting several weeks, and then expanded outward to urban areas. Modern estimates for the number of dead across France vary widely, from 5,000 to 30,000.
> 
> Lutheranism is another of the major protestant denominations, begun in the sixteenth century as a movement led by **Martin Luther** (1483-1546), who was a German Augustinian monk. Luther taught that salvation and eternal life is not earned by good deeds but is received only as a free gift of God's grace through faith in Jesus Christ as redeemer from sin. Luther insisted on Christian or Evangelical as the only acceptable names for individuals who professed Christ.
> 
> The main differences between a Calvanist and a Lutheran are:  
> Calvinists believe that salvation is predestined whereas Lutherans believe anyone can attain salvation through faith.  
> Calvinism stresses the absolute sovereignty of God whereas Lutheranism believes man has some control over certain aspects in his life.


	5. Leaving France Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We all need to step back and take a serious look at this feuding; we need to ask ourselves if it’s worth it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Readers:
> 
> I hope that I don't offended any readers but please understand that the sentiments of prejudice expressed in this story are not my own, but are the historically accurate accounts of this time period. As you read this story, put yourself right smack dab into 17th century France and look at this situation from Angelica’s POV. She is revealing her emotions, her experiences; I was trying to convey her feelings to you as the reader, nothing more. If you can genuinely _feel_ Angelica’s emotions—feel her sorrow, her regret, her dread as she comes to her final decision to leave—then I’ve done my job as a writer. 
> 
> Thank you for understanding, and for reading!

_But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you;_

_That ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for He maketh His sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and the unjust._

_Matthew 5: 44-45 KJV_

*****

Aramis watched as the blood dripped from Athos’ head onto the floor, forming a growing pool of red. He scrubbed a shaking hand down his face, worried sick for his brother. He hated that he couldn’t be at his friend’s side to treat his wounds personally; it was maddening that he was forced to watch from afar.

The former comte lay unmoving, his arm dangled over the side of the bed as the nurses tended to his head. The medic noticed dirt smeared across the lieutenant’s pale cheek; small specks of dirt clumped with dried blood in his beard.

“Aw, Athos, what happened out there?” the medic whispered to himself. 

“I need that hot water!” Nurse Angelica yelled out to the bustling soldiers bringing in supplies. She nodded her thanks as water, cloths and her other requested items appeared conveniently on the table beside Athos’ bed. 

“What can I do to help?” d’Artagnan asked, eager to jump in and make himself useful.

“Get a cloth and wet it with that hot water,” Nurse Angelica instructed. “Be careful, if the water is too warm, not to burn your hands; let the cloth cool some before putting it to his face. We need to wash away this blood, as well as the dirt and debris from the wound, before I can assess the damage.”

Aramis watched the bustling activity next to him, wearing an expression of fear and worry on his face. As the nurse tended to the patient, she blocked the medic’s view, giving him a blind sense of unsettling anxiety. 

“How bad is the wound, how does it look?” Aramis asked, trying to see around the nurse as she leaned over the patient. “How bad is it?” The medic resisted the urge to jump to his feet to see the patient for himself when he wasn’t answered right away. 

“I’ll know in a minute,” the nurse said without looking away from her patient. Together, she and d’Artagnan gently washed the blood and dirt from Athos’ face, taking especial care around the open wound. Water dripped from the patient, forming an even larger pool of red at the nurse’s feet. Angelica absently stepped in the water, splashing droplets of red across the floor.

“Merde, I think I’m going to be sick.” Aramis groaned at seeing the bloodied mess.

“Now, what are you goin’ on about?” Porthos attempted to lighten the medic’s mood. He gave a gentle squeeze to Aramis’ shoulder, his eyes conveying a silent message of compassion. “You’ve seen worse than this, ‘Mis. Athos is goin’ to be alright, you just believe that.”

“I know I’ve seen worse.” Aramis flopped back against his mound of pillows. He put a fist to his forehead as he watched Nurse Angelica tend to her patient. “But it’s different when I am the one seeing to their wounds; right now I just feel so… helpless.”

“Helpless?” Porthos repeated with a scowl. “May I remind you, brother, that just recently your foot was caught in a bear trap; I’ll also remind ya that we didn’t know if you were goin’ to make it or not. Athos would understand that you can’t take care of him this once.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier to be relegated to spectator as Athos bleeds…”

“Monsieur Aramis, it appears the ball creased the bone from his temple toward the left ear,” Angelica announced. The nurse moved out of the way so Aramis could see as she pointed out the path of the musket ball. “The wound is not deep, but it is still a dangerous injury. Seeing that the ball did not penetrate his skull, let us hope there is no permanent damage.”

“You mean, to his… brain, right?” d’Artagnan asked, suddenly sick with worry.

“Let us wait until Athos awakens before we jump to any conclusions, young man,” Angelica smiled kindly. “The ball did not penetrate the bone—he is very blessed.”

“Thank God,” the group of men echoed at the hopeful prognosis.

“Thank you, God.” Aramis crossed himself then went limp against the pillows, closing his eyes. Tears of relief leaked from his closed eyes and rolled down his temples to drip onto his pillow.

“God was indeed watching over this noble Musketeer.” Angelica turned to look at Aramis, her eyes warm and compassionate. “Just a hair to the right and your friend would have been killed instantly, but yet Athos was spared. There is a reason why God spared him, Aramis. On this belief, I think he will recover and be just fine.”

“Athos is going to be alright then?” Captain Tréville asked anxiously as he rejoined the group beside the bed.

“I see no reason why Athos would suffer any permanent damage from this wound.” Nurse Angelica replied cautiously. “However, it is still early, mind you, and we mustn’t get too far ahead of ourselves. Let us put our faith in prayer and leave it in God’s hands.”

“I think Athos’ life is in quite capable hands with you, Nurse Angelica,” Captain Tréville nodded. “However, I will feel better once Doctor Lemay examines him and, hopefully, concurs with your prognosis.”

“By all means, Athos should be looked after by his physician,” she nodded. “Truly, all gratitude should go to God as He is the one who has spared this man’s life,” Angelica blushed. “Until the doctor arrives, I am merely a temporary instrument in repairing the damage.”

“You are too modest, Mademoiselle.” Captain Tréville dipped his head in appreciation. “Your skills make you most valuable to us, especially in regard to Athos’ care.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Angelica returned the nod. “I will continue to do what I can for the patient until the doctor arrives. Unfortunately, I cannot do anything for the scar which Athos will bear above his eye and into his hairline. However, it should do little to mar his handsome features.”

“He’ll be very glad to know that,” Porthos chuckled.” 

“He can impress the ladies with his new scar,” Aramis quipped.

“Are we talking about the same Athos?” d’Artagnan retorted with a chuckle.

The Gascon’s comment brought forth a resounding clap to d’Artagnan’s back from Porthos. “Oi, I was wonderin’ the same thing,” the large Musketeer said as he smiled brightly. He glanced sideways at Aramis, “perhaps, our Athos will be a changed man after this, eh?” 

“Hmm, maybe,” Aramis huffed with a smile. The medic lay back against his pillow—his face still damp from the earlier tears—and snickered lightly at the thought of a changed Athos. “But on second thought, I rather like Athos just the way he is.” 

“Why don’t we finish up with the patient, shall we?” Nurse Angelica busied herself suturing the wound closed before disinfecting it with a liberal splash of brandy. She bandaged the wound, wrapping the cloth tightly around Athos’ head as d’Artagnan held it in place. The bandage was then tied off with a knot above the wound, giving him the look of a mummy with a bow.

“Now, let’s keep an eye on Athos and pray he regains consciousness soon.” Angelica washed her hands and dried them off on a towel. “Has everyone been tended to?”

“Yes, Angelica,” Gabrielle replied with a nod. “I’m just finishing up with the shoulder wound; I believe that everyone is going to make a full recovery.”

“I have tended to the men with the leg wounds; they will each recover in due time, Captain,” Nurse Maria announced.

“That is good news, nurses.” Captain Tréville let out a relieved sigh. “Thank you all for your help with my men; we could not have managed without you.”

“You are quite welcome, Captain,” Angelica said. “However, I am somewhat reluctant to inquire of the wounded men you battled against, that is the… the Huguenots you fought.”

“Nurses, please, such news is not suitable for your ears, I’m afraid.” Captain Tréville’s succinct, almost curt, retort spoke volumes.

“Captain, there is… something you must know about the nurses and myself.” Angelica bowed her head and took a deep breath. “The nurses and I are… not Catholic; we are instead, Lutherans,” she swallowed. “Some of those men you battled are Lutheran missionaries. We recently joined with a band of Huguenots in Créteil to gain information regarding the meeting with the cardinal and his bishops. My group meant no harm…”

“You meant no harm?” Captain Tréville thundered. “The Red Guards were attacked on the road to Vincennes, without provocation! It was _your_ people who opened fire first and began this unnecessary blood bath.”

“Captain, please!” Aramis quickly interrupted. He held his hands up in a gesture of peace, attempting to calm the rising tempers. “Please, just hear Nurse Angelica out; allow her to explain…”

“Explain what?” Captain Tréville interrupted, nearly shouting. The captain paced for a moment, gathering his temper; alas, he nodded his consent to quietly listen as Angelica explained her companion’s position as Lutheran missionaries. She revealed that the Lutherans had recently joined the Huguenots to learn what would become of the Protestants, but they had no idea their new alliance would result in such bloodshed. As the nurse continued, the captain grew visibly distressed. He dragged a hand down his face and hung his head low as she tearfully finished the account of what happened—and why.

Porthos and d’Artagnan exchanged grievous glances before also lowering their heads, unwilling to look the nurses in the eye.

“Messieurs, please, what are you not telling us?”

“Mademoiselle Angelica,” the captain paused, letting out a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this but… by the time we arrived on the scene, there were already many casualties. After the skirmish, after the fight was finished, the enemy…” Tréville paused, reluctant to continue.

“Captain, what are you trying to say?” Angelica asked fearfully.

“After my Musketeers were attacked—and Athos so senselessly shot in the head—we, together with the Red Guards, eradicated the enemy. That is to say, all of the Huguenots were… well,” he paused. “There were no enemy survivors of this battle. I am deeply sorry.”

“No!” Gabrielle screamed and fell to her knees. d’Artagnan rushed to help her to the nearest chair. “No, please tell me it’s not true!”

“God has brought punishment down on us!” Angelica cried, falling on the edge of Aramis’ bed. She buried her face in her hands and cried.

“Nurses, I am truly sorry, but my men were attacked and we responded justly. We had no idea some of those men were your companions; but given the situation in which we found ourselves, we had no choice. Perhaps you can rejoin with other missionaries?” the captain suggested softly.

“Captain, I’m afraid you don’t understand.” Nurse Maria stood to face Tréville. “Those missionaries were more than just our companions,” she hesitated. “Some of the missionaries were… well, Angelica’s brothers and Gabrielle’s fiancé; and one was also my… my husband. Those men were our family, and now we have no one. Now we are truly alone.”

 

**Next Morning, Infirmary:**

“I am escorting the nurses to Vincennes where they may claim their loved ones,” Captain Tréville announced. “The women want to give their men a proper Christian burial, which is fair and right. I have five men; I need one more,” he paused, waiting for a volunteer.

“I’ll go,” d’Artagnan jumped to his feet. He stopped as he stared at the sleeping form of Athos; the white of the bandages almost blended with the lieutenant’s pale skin. The Gascon hesitated, unwilling to leave his mentor’s side.

“Go on, he’ll be sleeping for a while yet,” Aramis said of the still-unconscious patient. The medic motioned with his head toward the doorway. “The captain has more need of you right now.”

d’Artagnan left with the captain and the nurses to travel to Sainte-Chapelle de Vincennes where the bodies of their loved ones were being held until claimed. In the meantime, Dr. Lemay made his rounds, checking every patient before sitting beside Aramis.

“Has Athos regained consciousness yet?” the doctor inquired. He proceeded to examine the medic’s foot as he listened to the report of the unconscious lieutenant. 

“He was moaning in pain earlier, as though on the edge of consciousness,” Aramis replied. “He quieted and I haven’t heard any sounds from him since.” 

“When was this?”

“About an hour ago.” Aramis furrowed his brow as he stared at his brother. “He moved his head side to side but never opened his eyes. I was hoping he would have awakened by now…” 

“Hmm, just give him more time,” Dr. Lemay nodded. “His stirring shows that he is gaining awareness, obviously feeling pain.” The physician continued tending to the medic’s foot as he spoke, applying fresh salve and rewrapping the bandage. “Athos should regain consciousness today—I would hope as such. I believe the next time he awakens, he’ll be more coherent; I can better determine his condition then. I will make a more educated prognosis at that time, rather than guessing.” 

“How’s the foot doing?” Porthos asked, motioning his head in the direction of Aramis’ foot.

“It is looking very good, actually,” Lemay answered. “The infection appears to be gone and the wound is healing nicely. I apologize for my late arrival but I was delayed at the palace,” the doctor shook his head. 

“We were very lucky to have the nurses here,” Aramis whispered quietly. “If they hadn’t been here, I don’t know if Athos would have made it.”

“Yes, I am quite grateful for the valuable assistance the nurses provided in my absence.” Doctor Lemay patted Aramis’ hand. “Their treatment of your ankle, as well, was brilliant—absolutely exemplary—I must admit. Given the progression of your recovery, you should be out of bed and up on crutches in another day or two.”

“Good, I’m tired of being confined to this cot, especially with Athos hurt.”

“Rubbish, Athos is right beside you, brother,” Porthos interjected. “Don’t think he’s goin’ anywhere anytime soon; so whether you’re on that cot, or in the chair beside him, you can still watch over him.”

“I just feel helpless lying here doing nothing…” his voice trailed.

“Athos has gotten plenty of care by the nurses and Doctor Lemay,” the large Musketeer stated. Porthos sat down in the chair Doctor Lemay recently vacated to situate himself between Aramis and Athos. “Besides, with you keepin’ an eye on Athos, you’re helping the doctor care for him—that’s not helpless. Watching over Athos… that counts for something.”

“I believe God sometimes has to knock us flat on our backs to get our attention.” Aramis absently whispered. The medic had his eyes planted on the sleeping brother next to him, his brow furrowed in deep thought.

“What are you talking about?”

“When Angelica confessed to me that she was Lutheran and not Catholic, she brought up so many valid points about the feuding between our religions; curiously, many of the points I had never bothered to dwell on before.”

“Like what?”

“What if we’ve been going about this the wrong way, Porthos?”

“Bloody hell, ‘Mis, just what are you talkin’ about?” Porthos knitted his brow with concern. “What did she say that has you so bothered?”

“What if they’re not the enemy?” Aramis looked up. “What if the _true_ enemy is our own blindness?”

“You’re startin’ to worry me, brother.” Porthos studied his friend closely, though it did nothing to help him find answers. “What are you thinking in that head of yours, eh?”

“This _prejudice_ against others simply because their belief differs from our own,” Aramis began, “well, it’s all wrong.” The medic appeared bewildered as he stared into the distance. “The Bible teaches us that we are all children of God; we are to love our enemies and to pray for those that persecute us.”

“What’s your point, Aramis?”

“Porthos, _where_ is the love that we were commanded to show to our ‘enemy’?” Aramis’ gaze fixed on Porthos, his stance hard and determined. “Where are the prayers for those who are persecuted?”

“You’re referring to the missionaries, right?” Porthos sat back in his chair, realization splashed across his features.

“Our society dictates that the Protestants are not the same as the Catholics. No, in many cases, they’re not even thought of as fellow citizens—they are considered the enemy,” Aramis admitted. “We didn’t question the policies—or even care—it’s how we were brought up in the church. This is just the way it is and it’s accepted as normal,” his voice took on an edge of disgust. “When did we as a people become so prejudiced?”

“When did we _become_ prejudiced?” Porthos huffed, his jaw set hard. “That’s all I knew growin’ up in the Court, Aramis. I faced prejudice and bigotry my whole life because of the color of my skin,” he growled. “My mother and I were treated like rubbish because we were different than everyone else.”

“I’m sorry, Porthos…”

“They never gave my mother a chance to better herself,” Porthos ranted angrily. “Hell, no one wanted to deal with her… or her son.” 

“You and your mother never should have been judged that way,” Aramis whispered. “Mon Dieu, what kind of a society have we become accustomed to?”

“We live in a society…” Porthos paused with disgust, unable to continue. 

“Porthos, please talk to me,” Aramis pleaded. “What were you going to say?”

“Aramis, it’s not just religion or the color of our skin that people judge,” he growled, clenching his fists. “They also judge you on how much money you have. I had no choice… I had to steal to eat, dammit!”

“I’m sorry…”

“Was I less valuable as a person because I had no money in my pockets?” Porthos hissed. “Does more money make the nobles better people than those barely scrapin’ by on the streets?”

“No, of course not!” Aramis answered emphatically. “On that same token, is someone less valuable as a person if they are Protestant rather than Catholic? I understand what you are saying, Porthos, and why you are so angry. The same nonsensical bigotry applies to religion. How could we have been so blind to our own prejudices?”

“Because it’s accepted as normal; it’s all _normal_ society knows,” Porthos fumed. “Aramis, until we can get enough people fighting back and standin’ up for themselves, nothing is gonna change!”

“Angelica asked if we—the Protestants and the Catholics—served the same God and the same king. I had never thought of it that way before. We all serve the same in both regards… but yet we are so divided.”

“Throughout history, our leaders have ordered Catholics to kill the Huguenots as enemies of France,” Porthos stated grimly. “We cannot defy the king, unless you want to lose your head!”

“Exactly,” Aramis scrubbed a hand down his face. “But how do we justify the killing and the shedding of blood in the name of our religion?”

“I don’t know, ‘Mis,” Porthos sighed. “It’s not right, but all we can do is try changin’ our own corner of the world. We as a people need to push back; we need to fight back and speak up; we need to do somethin’ to put a stop to the prejudice. Maybe, eventually, society might change.”

“Porthos, my friend, you astound me,” Aramis smiled. “You’ve always been so hopeful, so optimistic for a better future.”

“It’s why I became a Musketeer.”

“Why…?”

“Hope for change and a better future.” Porthos’ eyes danced. “I got myself out of the Court—I worked my way to a better life. I believe it’s possible for everyone else to do the same; it can happen. Maybe with more people like those nurses, it _will_ happen…”

They were startled from their conversation as groaning from the next cot captured their attention. The two men watched with widened eyes as Athos began to awaken. 

The lieutenant’s brow creased in pain as awareness brought with it a wave of agony pounding through his head. He turned his head side to side, moaning in pain, but the motion only caused his temples to throb worse.

“Mngh…” Athos groaned. His head pounded with every beat of his heart; his pulse played like a drum in his ears. The lieutenant reached his hand up to touch the source of the burning pain on the left side of his head but was stopped short as an unseen hand grabbed his.

“Athos!” Porthos shot to his feet and was at his friend’s side in an instant. He grabbed his brother’s hand as the fingers searched the bandage covering his wound. “Easy now, don’t touch that. Hey, Athos,” he gently tapped his cheek. “Open your eyes for me.”

“Hursss…” Athos slurred. The lieutenant’s eyes remained closed, crunched tightly as the throbbing continued to wreak havoc on his senses. He couldn’t remember what happened or why he felt so much pain; the fog in his brain effectively blocked his memory of everything but the pain.

“Athos, it’s Aramis; I’m here too,” the medic called from his cot. “Open your eyes, mon ami. You’ve been sleeping long enough; nap time is over.”

“Mphf,” Athos huffed softly. The lieutenant groaned at the constant pain in his head. He pursed his lips and clenched his jaws, fighting the wave of dizziness threatening to pull him back into the void. His stomach rolled then suddenly lurched…

“Turn him, quick!” Aramis yelled to Porthos.

Porthos had time to turn Athos to the edge of the cot just as his stomach rebelled. Water mixed with bile dribbled from his mouth onto the floor. In this instance, the lieutenant was grateful for an empty stomach. “Damn…”

“Athos, brother, open your eyes.” Porthos instructed as he gently wiped a cloth over Athos’ mouth, cleaning away the spittle from his lips. “I know you’d rather sleep, but you can rest later. Right now, I want to see those green eyes open up for me.”

“Maybe Captain Tréville should have you begin training as the regiment’s back-up medic,” Aramis smiled as he watched Porthos tend to their wounded brother. “You have an excellent bedside manner, mon cher.”

“That depends on who the patient is,” Porthos lightly huffed. “If it’s someone I don’t like… well, I’ve had a few mean nurses I could imitate.”

“Hursss…”

“I know it hurts, brother, but this is better than the alternative, huh?” Porthos suggested, flashing his bright teeth in a wide smile.

“Not ssoo ssure,” Athos slurred. “I’d beg… to diff-differ.”

“Rubbish!” Porthos retorted. “Who would keep us all in line if you weren’t here?”

“I thinn … you… have things… well in hannd.” Athos relaxed his features as sleep began to pull him under.

“Athos, would you at least open your eyes before you go to sleep.” Aramis grimaced as he realized the silliness of such a request. Porthos glanced at the medic with eyebrows raised, questioning the ridiculous ‘advice’ from his friend. 

Aramis snickered as he shrugged his shoulders, “what?”

“You heard that, right?” Porthos quipped, turning back to Athos. “That’s our medic’s best advice!”

“Was trying to sssleeeep… too much… chatterr…” Athos’ head lolled to the side as his breathing evened. The lines on his brow disappeared as sleep pulled the lieutenant back into its peaceful grip.

“Let him sleep, Porthos.” Aramis smiled. “I think he’s going to be alright.” The medic looked at his friend and made the sign of the cross, grateful Athos appeared to be on the road to recovery. “We’ll get him to open his eyes the next time he wakes up.”

 

**Later:**

The pounding in his head literally throbbed him to the edge of consciousness. He lay still, suffering in so much pain, although he couldn’t remember what happened to cause such agony. “Ssss-stop…”

“Athos!” d’Artagnan jumped to his feet beside the bed. “Athos, wake up for me,” he gently patted the lieutenant’s cheek. “You said stop… stop what, mon ami?”

“Stop the… pounding in my… head.” 

“Nurses, do you have any valerian root with you?” Aramis asked from his bed. “If you don’t have any, I might have some in room—in my herb kit.”

“Yes, we have some,” Angelica smiled, her face brightening at the request. “I will make some valerian tea; it will certainly help get rid of that headache. See if you can get Athos to remember what happened, gentlemen. Talk to him…. keep him awake!”

“Athos, do you remember what happened?” d’Artagnan asked, sitting back down in his chair.

Athos crunched his eyes, trying to remember, when his stomach lurched. Porthos and d’Artagnan jumped to their feet to turn the sick Musketeer to his side; though he retched repeatedly, nothing came up but bile.

“God… my head…”

“Athos, the nurses are makin’ you some tea for that headache,” Porthos soothed. He gently ran a cool cloth over his brother’s face before offering him a sip of water but the lieutenant wouldn’t drink. “You need to drink some water, my friend. Come on now, you need somethin’ in that stomach of yours if you’re going to get better.”

“Don’t want anything… just come back up…”

“Well, you _will_ drink that tea when Angelica comes back,” Aramis threatened, playfully. “If you don’t drink it, I’ll send Porthos to find a bellows tube to force the tea in you…”

“You wouldn’t… dare.”

“Try me.” 

“Gentlemen, really, is this the time to have a showdown of stubbornness?” d’Artagnan grinned at the two men.

“See, ‘Mis, I think our brother here is doin’ just fine,” Porthos quipped with amusement. “At least that stubborn streak of his wasn’t hurt none.”

“Yes, well, how about his memory?” Aramis frowned as he watched his friend, still lying with his eyes tightly closed.

“My memory is jusss fine, thank you.”

“Alright, then you wouldn’t mind telling us what happened.” d’Artagnan stated, rather than asked. “How did you get this head injury of yours, hmm?”

“We were riding to-toward Vincennes,” Athos began slowly. “We had to dis… dismount… walking…”

“Yes, we were walking,” d’Artagnan eagerly prompted. “Why were we walking, what happened next?”

“We… the captain told us to leave our horses… had to hide… oh God, the bodies… I remember the bodies.” Athos lurched sideways, “I think I’m… be sick…”

“Athos, is there anything we can do to help?” d’Artagnan and Porthos stood ready, watching with concern as Athos fought to control his nausea. “Athos…?”

“No…” Athos breathed out, clenching his eyes tightly shut. “Damn, I remember… they were sh-shooting at us… I saw sssomething out of the corner of my eye… it rose out of the weeds…”

“Yes!” d’Artagnan exclaimed. “There was a man hiding in the weeds; no one saw him… until it was too late.”

“What?” Aramis sat up on his bed at the news of how the shooting happened. “How could someone sneak up on you like that?”

“I didn’t see him…”

“Athos, don’t do this,” Porthos growled. “No one saw that man until he had already dropped ya; he was hidin’ in the tall grass like a damn snake! Shootin’ you was the last thing he ever did on this earth.”

“It’s not your fault, Athos,” d’Artagnan shook his head sadly. “Porthos is right, none of us saw that man until it was too late. Dammit, if only we had spotted him first!”

“How did it come to this?” Aramis lamented. “So many lives lost, the nurses lost their families; Athos was almost… dammit!”

“Hey, are you alright?” Porthos inquired of his friend, squeezing his hand softly. “If we had known who they were—and if they had known we had their women here with us—maybe we could have talked it out… without spillin’ all that blood.”

“This was all so senseless…” d’Artagnan’s voice trailed.

“I wish I didn’t… remember the bodies,” Athos whispered, still lying on his side. “Shouldn’t… have… happened.” 

The group of men watched as their friend fell asleep, a grimace of pain still lingering on his face. They decided it would be best to let the lieutenant sleep; the valerian tea could wait until the next time he awoke.

“You’re right, it shouldn’t have happened,” Aramis whispered softly, “but it did. Look at what it has cost us on both sides,” he lowered his head sadly. A tear leaked from the medic’s eye and dripped onto his pillow, he quickly wiped away the wetness from his face. “We all need to step back and take a serious look at this feuding; we need to ask ourselves if it’s worth it.”

 

**Nearly Two Weeks Later:**

“The king has agreed to allow the Musketeers to escort you ladies to Le Havre, should you decide to leave the country.” Captain Tréville reported to the nurses. “His Majesty is grateful for the care you provided so willingly to his Musketeers that he has agreed to provide you safe passage to England.”

“What?” Aramis exclaimed in surprise. “Angelica, you’re not seriously thinking of leaving, are you?”

“Yes…”

“But, France is your _home!”_

“Not anymore, Monsieur Aramis,” Angelica replied sadly. “The battle claimed the lives of my two brothers; I have no family left. I have nothing left in France to keep me here.”

“And I lost my husband,” Maria added grimly. “We were quite ready to accept whatever punishment His Majesty decided, but I am more than willing to accept his gracious offer for safe transport to a new country. We cannot continue to be a part of this bloodshed—this senseless killing—for our faith. Not anymore.”

“But, where will you go?” d’Artagnan asked with concern. “What will you do?”

“We have a friend who escaped to England a short while ago,” Angelica answered with a smile. “She is waiting and has made arrangements for us to join her. I have faith the good Lord will provide for us and He will open the doors of provision.”

“When are you leaving?” Aramis asked glumly, his features downcast.

“As soon as you Musketeers are ready to escort us, we are ready to travel,” Maria informed the captain.

“My men will escort you to Le Havre in the morning then.” Captain Tréville nodded, glancing at his three men.

“I would like to accompany the group,” Athos quickly inquired of the captain. “My wound has had more than enough time to heal, Captain. I am quite fit and ready for travel.”

“Do you think it’s wise, Aramis?” Tréville asked, looking to the medic for his opinion.

“Yes, he should be well enough for travel by now,” Aramis replied. “An additional sword, if necessary, will only help ensure our safety to the harbor, Captain.”

“What about your foot, Aramis?” Captain Tréville inquired, pointing to the bandaged ankle.

“Captain, I can ride with a bandaged foot,” Aramis countered. “It’s the horse that will do all the walking,” he smiled. “I can strap my cane to the saddlebags for when I’m on foot.”

“Fine, alright then,” the captain agreed. “Have your things packed and ready—you will leave at first light.”

 

**Harbor, Le Havre:**

“Will you ever come back to France?” Aramis asked Angelica. The couple stood near the gangplank of the large wooden ship. Men scurried by with armloads of supplies, loading the ship before its journey across the English Channel.

***

“Aramis sure grew fond of Angelica, didn’t he?” d’Artagnan whispered as he watched the couple talking. The three Musketeers stood by their horses chatting, while giving the couple privacy to say their goodbyes.

“She is a right pretty lady.” Porthos commented sadly as he watched his friend. “The women shouldn’t have to leave their own country because of their faith. This is just wrong; we’re losin’ good nurses there.”

“Yes, it is wrong,” Athos agreed with a sigh. “In order to ensure their safety, however, leaving France is the best choice they have. Until we can all learn to get along, going to England is their only viable option.”

***

“Perhaps we will return to our homeland if our people ever stop warring with each other; if they ever stop causing such unwarranted bloodshed and death.” Angelica sadly looked around the port, soaking in the sights of her beloved country. “Maybe someday our leaders will see that we are all God’s children and there is room for _all_ to live together in peace. _If_ that happens, I will return to my beloved France.”

“You and the nurses, you all gave such a valuable service to the poor people of France,” Aramis reminded. “Do not forget, these are _your_ people, Angelica. France will be a lesser place without you nurses here. You will be greatly missed.”

“I will miss France, ‘tis true.” Angelica’s eyes filled with tears. “But more than that, I will miss you… Aramis. You have a heart of gold and a genuine love for God; use both to make France a better place for all.”

“Ahoy, all passenger please board!” the ship’s first mate announced.

“You take care of yourself,” Aramis whispered. The medic leaned on his cane then took Angelica’s hand with his other and held on, unwilling to let go. “Write me and let me know how you and the other nurses are doing in England; would you do that for me, please?”

“I will.”

“Be safe, Angelica.” Aramis leaned in to softly kiss the nurse’s lips. The couple parted and stared into each other’s eyes, as the busy activity on the dock simply faded away in the background. Their lips met again for one last, tender kiss of goodbye, each knowing in their hearts they would never see each other again.

“Goodbye, my sweet Aramis!” Angelica cried before tearing herself away from the medic’s arms to run up the gangplank. The nurse paused a moment on the ship’s deck to gaze in sorrow at all that she was leaving behind. Her roaming eyes stopped on Aramis and, with one last tearful wave goodbye, she turned and disappeared from sight.

“Goodbye, my angel,” Aramis whispered quietly. The medic stood on the dock, watching as the ship slowly floated out of the harbor and into the open waters. The marksman departed only when his brothers took him by the shoulders to lead him away.

“Maybe someday the world will change and prejudice will disappear…and she’ll come back.” Porthos softly squeezed the medic’s shoulder. 

“Maybe someday we’ll be more accepting and people’s differences will be an asset, rather than a source of division.” d’Artagnan added with a sympathetic smile.

“You really believe that will happen?” Aramis scoffed. “Let alone in our lifetime?”

“It is quite a lofty goal, my friend, but anything is possible.” Athos clapped Aramis on the shoulder and squeezed gently.

“It is a goal that we, as people of France, can hope for,” Porthos clapped Aramis on the opposite shoulder.

“It’s a false hope,” Aramis muttered under his breath, though everyone heard.

“It’s not a false hope, my brother,” Porthos softly reassured. “Without hope, we’re dead as a people. I believe a world without prejudice is a goal worth strivin’ for.”

“Perhaps you’re right, Porthos.” Aramis sniffed as he wiped his eyes dry. “It is a goal worth striving for, as any worthy goal is. If there are enough voices calling out for change maybe, just maybe, our hope will become a reality.” 

“Hope has to start somewhere, eh?” Porthos smiled.

“It starts at home,” Aramis chimed with a nod.

“Then let’s go home, shall we?” Athos wrapped his arms around the shoulder of Aramis as the medic limped with his cane toward the horses. 

“I’m ready to go home,” Aramis declared as he mounted his horse. The medic sighed as he turned his horse to get one last look at the ship, now fading into the horizon. “I’m ready to make France a more accepting place to live.” 

“I’m ready to race you to the river!” d’Artagnan challenged. The young Gascon kicked his horse and galloped down the road with Aramis close on his heels.

Athos and Porthos eyed each other with mischief, as an unspoken challenge passed between them. They each nudged their horses into a run, following after their brothers and leaving the waters of Le Havre far behind them.

***

“France is my home; maybe someday it will be safe to return to my beloved country.” Angelica watched the port city fading away as she stood at the stern of the ship. Strands of blonde hair broke loose in the wind and clung to her wet cheeks, but the nurse merely continued to stare into the distance. “Goodbye, my sweet Aramis… you will always have my heart. Farewell… and God bless.”

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sadly, the hope for a country without religious prejudice would not happen within the lifetime of the Musketeers (of this story). Not until Louis XVI, in 1787, would the country of France allow all citizens—Catholic and Protestant—to worship freely, without persecution.
> 
> To escape the persecution, many thousands of French citizens fled their beloved homeland to find religious freedoms and refuge in a new land. The bulk of Huguenot refugees relocated to Protestant European nations such as England, Wales, Denmark, Sweden, Switzerland and Ireland. They also spread beyond Europe to the Dutch Cape Colony in South Africa, the Dutch East Indies and the English colonies in North America, where they were generally accepted and allowed to worship freely.
> 
> Since the Huguenots of France were in large part artisans, craftsmen, and professionals, they were usually well-received in the countries to which they fled. Their talents in the arts, sciences, and industry were such that it is considered a tragic loss to French society.
> 
> Just as France suffered a notable loss though the emigration of these intelligent, capable people, so the American colonies (in this specific example) gained. The Protestant colonists became farmers, laborers, ministers, soldiers, sailors, and people who engaged in government. The Huguenots supplied the colonies with excellent physicians and expert artisans and craftsmen.
> 
> France’s loss was the world’s gain.


End file.
